


Things Fall Apart

by Wordweaver



Series: A Wild Combination [6]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Backstory, Break Up, Childhood Trauma, Complete, Dark Stuff & Feelgood, M/M, Nakamaship, Relationship(s), Starvation, Undisclosed past, ZoSan - Freeform, sanzo - Freeform, so what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 128,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordweaver/pseuds/Wordweaver
Summary: We've all seen enough, now it's time to decideThe meekness of love or the power of prideIt doesn't matter if you're good or smartGoddamn it, things fall apart-	Built To SpillSanji and Zoro seem to have got past the troubling revelations about the swordsman's history. So everything's copacetic, right?...But this is just the start of a long, hot summer.
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro & Vinsmoke Sanji, Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji, Sanji/Roronoa Zoro
Series: A Wild Combination [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/286701
Comments: 147
Kudos: 153





	1. Everything's About To Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro took his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the screen: Sanji’s name showed there. Swiping his thumb across, he took the call.
> 
> “Hey, moss head. You heading home from kendo practice?”
> 
> Zoro grunted an affirmative. “Yeah, just got out.”
> 
> “Spending all day working up a sweat in a gym full of fitness freaks not enough for you?”
> 
> The swordsman snorted. “No. Makes me want to go out and hit things.”
> 
> “Guess that works out then.” Sanji sounded like he was grinning.

* * *

_Wait, it's just about to break  
It’s more than I can take  
Everything's about to change  
I feel it in my veins, it’s not going away  
Everything's about to change_

_\- Thousand Foot Krutch_

* * *

Zoro had done some bad shit in his life, which might go some way to explaining why he was now condemned to hell.

The air was stiflingly hot, and every inch of his skin crawled with sweat. All around him other damned souls groaned and gasped with pain, craving release from their torment. And their suffering was only increased by the knowledge that they themselves had brought this on themselves: no-one else had brought them to this place of torture.

Fortunately, this particular hell had a clock on the wall. One which Zoro had been watching for the past half hour, mentally willing the minute hand to speed up. And which now, _fucking finally_ , slid onto the hour, giving Zoro permission to call out what he’d been craving for eternity to do. “Okay, time’s up! We’ll finish there. Good work, everyone.” The panting, sweating, flush-faced gym clients came to a halt, looking for the most part like they were on the verge of needing medical intervention. “Please stack your weights on the racks before you head out; and remember to fill your water bottle and rehydrate.”

There was a dazed murmur of compliance as people shuffled to the weight racks, or to where they’d left their bottles. A few offered a parting thank you as they headed out of the gym studio, but most simply made as quick an exit as possible.

Zoro didn’t blame them. He made for the edge of the space where his own water bottle – empty, he’d drained it before the class started and not had time to get a refill – and towel waited. He nodded and smiled at the departing people, lifting a hand in acknowledgement to the few clients who called out thanks... While watching to make sure that all the weights they’d used in the bodypump class were returned to the correct racks.

At last the swing doors closed behind the final exiting person. Zoro let the smile fall away and picked up his towel, using it to blot the sweat from his face and neck.

“... _Fuck_.” The word came out muffled through the towel, but Zoro put a lot of feeling into it. “Fucking cheapskate management and their incompetent _piece of shit_ air con engineers...”

The creak of the gym door signalled someone coming into the space, making Zoro drag the towel off his face and look up quickly, expecting to see a gym member returning for a forgotten water bottle. Fortunately, it was one of his fellow instructors instead: TJ, a tall African-American who ran a lot of the dancersize and aerobics classes. “Hey, Zoro. S’up?”

“Hey, TJ.” Zoro draped his gym towel round his neck and picked up his empty water bottle. “You in here next?”

“Uh huh. Werk class.”

“What the hell is werk?”

“The bastard child of zumba and hip-hop.” TJ smiled wryly. “Wanna check it out?” 

TJ was forever inviting Zoro to get in touch with his inner dance muse. TJ was a very watchable dancer and also gay – the only other gay co-worker Zoro had so far encountered at the gym - and pretty damn hot to boot. But Zoro was feeling the influence of a different kind of heat right now. “You’re on your own.” The swordsman shook his head. “Gonna go stick my head under a cold shower. I’ve been leading classes in this fuckin’ sweatbox since one o’clock.”

“It does feel kinda rank in here.” TJ wafted one hand to and fro in front of his face. “Get any fainters today? Some chick keeled over during spin class, we had to call a halt and play doctor. Turned out she hadn’t drunk anything since yesterday because her friend told her drinking cold water in hot weather would make her bloated.”

“Yeah?” Zoro wasn’t surprised. Some of the fitness clients displayed such a degree of ignorance about how their own bodies worked, that it was amazing the gym didn’t have more casualties. “Sucks to be her, then.”

“Mhmm, no helping some people.” TJ shrugged. “Well... If you’re not up for an hour of funking your body to some happening Afro-Latino beats, you better escape before my willing victims turn up.” He paced over to where one of the electric fans had been placed at the side of the studio, lifted his arms and let the moving air blow over him. “Unh-uh. Our lame-ass managers really have spared no expense in laying on alternative cooling technology, in place of our recently-deceased and much-lamented air con.”

“There any news about when they’re gonna get it up and running again?”

“Word has it, maybe as soon as next Tuesday.” TJ gave an ironic double thumbs-up. “We could be enjoying bearable working conditions within a week. Try to contain your excitement.”

“Next _Tuesday?_ Fuck...” Zoro considered the prospect of several more days of physical toil in hellish conditions. “They’re gonna lose clients, from this shit. These studios are like exercising in a goddamn sauna.”

“Good for the muscle tone.” TJ smirked at him. “Like bikram hot yoga. You just need to relax into it, enjoy the heat.”

Letting out a snort, Zoro started moving to the door. “Yeah, I’ll remind you of that tomorrow. Enjoy twerking in your relaxing sauna.”

“Oh, I will.” TJ curved his sculpted dancer’s body into a graceful arabesque pose; before extending his middle finger elegantly upwards in Zoro’s direction. “Enjoy your refreshing shower, by-atch.”

Even showering provided no escape from the heat. Zoro set the dial as cold as it would go, but as soon as he stepped out of the spray and back into the locker room the air was humid and towelling himself dry proved impossible: sweat stuck his street clothes to him as soon as he pulled them on.

Pausing only to grab his kendo bag from his locker and refill his water bottle again on the way out, Zoro nodded farewell to Laura on the gym reception and headed out onto the street. Where he was greeted by heat again: the warmed-over fug of traffic fumes from city rush-hour, hemmed in by buildings which had been baking in sunshine all day and were now giving it back in the early evening.

There was no way Zoro was taking a bus to kendo practice. Walking wouldn’t yield much in the way of fresh air, but it would be better than being cooped up on a bus with non-opening windows. He took a gulp of water from his bottle and started moving, threading his way between people heading homewards from work.

Everyone was moving sluggishly, reacting slowly to other people in their path. This heat wave had been going two weeks now and showed no signs of ending any time soon. A summer which had begun unseasonably early with sunny days in May that had lifted people’s spirits, had now intensified into an unrelenting heat that hit you with an almost physical force. The burn of the sun on the back of your neck, the glow of warmth radiating off sidewalks and buildings, the glare of sunlight reflected off windows and metal surfaces... It seemed to suck people’s energy, leaving them dazed and irritable.

Zoro wasn’t usually bothered by heat or cold, but even he was starting to feel it. It didn’t help that the gym’s air conditioning had been on the fritz since the middle of last week, finally dying over the weekend and leaving them running classes in spaces eighty degrees plus. Staff had taken to propping windows and fire doors open, and today a stern email memo had been circulated by the fuckwit management, curtly reminding everyone that fire safety and building security precautions must be adhered to. Zoro had deleted it without bothering to read it.

A guy walking from the opposite direction and arguing loudly into a cell phone jammed against his ear apparently failed to notice Zoro, his shoulder slamming into the swordsman’s. The guy paused only long enough to glance round and snap, “Watch where you’re going, dickhead!” before striding onwards.

Mentally projecting _Yeah, fuck you too, asshole!_ , Zoro settled for casting a dark stare at the man’s back, before continuing on his way.

_Too fucking hot for a fight._

Everyone was edgy from the heat: sweaty and beaten down from toiling by day and not sleeping at night. Tempers were short. Even at work his co-workers had been getting uptight with each other about stupid shit: gym mats being left out instead of stacked away, clashes over class timetabling, arguments about when people could schedule annual leave. People literally losing their cool: overheated brains going into meltdown.

The only way to deal with it was to focus on other things. Tonight Zoro had his regular midweek kendo practice, which was where he usually let go of any shit that had been bothering him. But the dojo was as stuffy and warm as anywhere else, and exerting himself in kendo uniform and bōgu took a toll. Takahashi had begun allowing time-outs during the sessions for his kendōka to drink water and catch a breather, but Zoro still finished each class with his kendogi and hakama soaked with sweat. At the end of one night’s practice Johnny had made a show of taking off his headcloth in the locker room and wringing out a trickle of liquid, producing laughter from his fellow kendōka.

Zoro and Luffy’s top floor apartment was like an oven in the heat, too. Whoever had built their block, they’d evidently skimped on insulation: the brick walls quickly became radiant heaters in the sun, staying warm long after nightfall. Zoro and Luffy left the windows wide open, took cold showers (the one thing their apartment had never lacked) and lay around in their shorts, Luffy groaning, _I’m sooooo hot,_ at regular intervals.

At weekends Zoro sometimes took refuge at Sanji’s place, although that wasn’t much cooler. The chef was just as frazzled by the heat as everyone else: and when Sanji got irritable, Zoro generally got a slice of it. To be fair, it couldn’t be a fun-fest cooking all day in _Bite Me’s_ tiny street outlet; plus Sanji was now getting weekend gigs doing party catering, which meant he was working his ass off.

_And it’s only fucking mid-June._

Zoro was used to coping with the sweltering humid heat of the city in summer by simple means. Making sure there were always some cold beers in the fridge, and taking naps to compensate for shitty sleepless nights sweating on top of his sheets usually worked well enough to keep him from seriously entertaining thoughts of mass homicide at work. And when that failed, there was always kendo practice.

Kogaku-Kan dojo had windows high up along two of its walls and they were all wide open when Zoro walked in; but they made little difference in the humid heat. Kneeling in mokusō meditation was bearable, but once Zoro and his fellow kendōka began working on technique the practice space began to feel like an oven.

Sweat slid along Zoro’s sides under his kendogi, sticking the lightweight practice uniform to his skin. His hands felt slick inside his kote, the thick padded gloves acting as unwanted insulation. Despite his headcloth, perspiration ran down his forehead until he had to blink away the salt sting in his eyes.

_Forget it. Focus._

The heat blurred everything: his vision, the harsh sounds of kiai echoing off the dojo walls. Again and again Zoro found himself drifting out of the zone, not watching his opponent’s moves, almost forgetting his own footwork. Each time it happened he caught himself with a mental curse, before sternly bringing his attention back.

_Shit... Focus, damn it._

It wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t afford to get sloppy like this, not with the fifth dan grading exam in less than six months.

_Get with the fucking program, Roronoa._

Once the evening’s practice was over Zoro took another cold shower, standing with his head bowed under the cool spray for long minutes; trying to sluice away all the frustrations and trials of a long, hot day.

When he headed into the locker room Johnny and Yosaku were already there, sitting half-dressed and arguing the toss over which death metal band ruled.

“Bro, you are fuckin’ tripping.” Johnny waved his hand in violent denial, with an expression of wide-eyed seriousness. “No way do Vader even come close to Bolt Thrower, on any level.”

“Okay, first reason they kick Bolt Thrower’s ass: Vader are still actually playing. Second: a drummer who isn’t dead.” Yosaku counted his points off on his fingers as he made them. “Third: Vader once supported Metallica.”

Johnny groaned. “Are you freakin’ serious?” He grabbed his towel from the bench and flicked it at the other man. “Get real, diptard.”

“Zoro!” Yosaku appealed to a higher court, fending off the whipping towel. “Help me out here!”

Zoro simply opened his locker and dumped his street clothes on the bench, before beginning to towel himself dry. “Go kill each other someplace else.”

His friends subsided, exchanging glances. There was maybe half a minute of welcome silence, before Johnny ventured a cautious enquiry. “Bad day, bro?”

Rubbing his towel hard through his hair, Zoro let out a long breath... Before emerging to regard his friend. “Just beat, is all. Air con at work is still busted, fuckin’ gym’s one big sweat box.”

“That sucks.” Johnny gave him a wry smile.

“Tell me about it.”

Yosaku folded his arms across his chest. “Oi, you told Zoro-bro about Sunday yet?”

“Was going to.” Johnny nodded, before cocking an enquiring eyebrow at Zoro. “You too beat to be up for some kendo action, this weekend?”

“Like what?” Zoro wasn’t really in the mood for their usual fare, of watching recorded highlights of previous years of the All Japan Kendo Championship finals... Even coupled with the epic amounts of beer consumption that usually accompanied it.

Johnny grinned. “You heard of Wani Dojo?”

Zoro knew the name from his researches to find a kendo dojo when he’d first moved to the city, but not much more than that. “That the place run by the sensei who’s an ex-Japanese cop?”

“Über-cop. Ex-Japanese _Imperial Guard_ ,” Johnny replied, grinning wider. “In kendo, those guys take no fucking prisoners.”

Zoro knew the reputation of Imperial Guard kendōka. He’d seen them in action too, in video clips of Japanese tournaments where they knocked hell out of opponents. It wasn’t the kendo Zoro had learned from sensei like Koshiro and Takahashi, where skill and etiquette were as important as the determination to win. Japanese police kendōka didn’t bother with finesse. They used ferocity and brute force and whatever the fuck else was necessary to take their opponents down in a way that made it unlikely they’d be getting up again.

Johnny was still grinning at him, so Zoro took the bait. “So what’s the deal with Wani Dojo?”

“They put the word out on the kendo forum a couple weeks back: they’re hosting an open day at their dojo, this Sunday. Anyone can turn up for jigeiko and fighting shiai against their kendōka, long as you’re graded sandan up - just gotta let ’em know beforehand that you’re coming. We signed up already. You in?”

After considering the proposition, Zoro shrugged. “Was gonna hang with Sanji.”

“The whole weekend?” Johnny raised his eyebrows. “Wani thing’s only a few hours on Sunday, eleven till four. C’mon...”

Zoro thought it over... Then capitulated. “Okay. Why the hell not.”

_Need all the practice I can get._

“Great! I’ll message ‘em to add your name to the guest list.” Johnny beamed.

Looking at Yosaku, Zoro gestured at his friend’s knee with one thumb. “You sure you want to tangle with these guys, ‘Saku? You’ve only been back at practice a couple months. With a sensei like that, some of them could turn out to be tough motherfuckers.”

“My knee’s solid, bro. Chopper said I shouldn’t have any more problems.” Yosaku gave him a thumbs-up. “I’m good to go.”

“Can’t break up the dream team!” Johnny slung one arm around Yosaku’s neck, the other across Zoro’s shoulders. “We’re gonna show those Wani _gaki_ that Kogaku-kan dojo rules.”

“Yeah, sure.” Zoro nodded, before grimacing and removing his friend’s arm. “Oi... Get off. It’s too hot for that shit.”

By the time Zoro hit the streets to walk home, the sun had dropped down behind the city skyline and the heat had eased a little. Letting out a yawn and scrubbing his fingers through his still-damp hair, the swordsman looked up at a flawlessly clear twilight sky.

_Gonna be another hot one tomorrow._

Zoro grimaced, wishing his week was already done and it was Friday night: so he could kick back, drink a cold beer or six without worrying about having to get up early for work, and spend some quality one-on-one time with his boyfriend. Being as how it was too hot to sleep much at night right now, he could think of better ways of using the hours.

As if magically triggered by these thoughts, his phone rang in his pocket. Zoro shifted the strap of his kendo bag on his shoulder, taking out the cell phone and checking the screen: Sanji’s name showed there. Swiping his thumb across, he took the call.

“Hey, moss head. You heading home from kendo practice?”

Zoro grunted an affirmative. “Yeah, just got out.”

“Spending all day working up a sweat in a gym full of fitness freaks not enough for you?”

The swordsman snorted. “No. Makes me want to go out and hit things.”

“Guess that works out then.” Sanji sounded like he was grinning. “Maim anyone?”

“They kinda frown on us inflicting actual bodily harm.”

“Pffft, where’s the fun in that?” A click was followed by the sound of the chef inhaling and exhaling: Zoro could visualise him lighting up a cigarette, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “How’s your week so far?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Fucking minus five.”

“They still haven’t fixed your air con at work, huh.”

“Hell no.”

“Isn’t it kind of risky making people do strenuous exercise in high temperatures? Or do you make your clients sign waivers, so when they start going into cardiac arrest you’re legally covered?”

“They’re only stuck in that fucking gym a couple hours, max. I clocked a ten-hour shift today.”

Sanji’s chuckle came lowly out of the phone. “Well, if it’s any consolation, cooking in _Bite Me_ right now is like working in a sauna.”

“You get that fan rigged up like you were planning to?”

“Yeah: but you think that makes a difference? I’m working over a hotplate in a small metal box in the sunshine. I’m being fucking _brûléed_ in there.”

“Hope your customers appreciate your pain.”

“Wish I had enough customers to make the torture worthwhile.” Sanji sounded abruptly gloomy.

Zoro frowned. “Things slow?”

“Well, this crappy heatwave doesn’t exactly make it easy to sell food... And since the colleges went on summer break, most of the students bailed back home or to summer jobs. I’m still getting workers on lunch breaks, but sales are down. Maybe the novelty’s worn off.”

Zoro didn’t really know what to say to reassure his boyfriend, mainly because he knew jack-shit about the catering industry. “Guess things’ll pick up again.”

“Mm-hm. They better.” Sanji sighed; but when he spoke again, he sounded as though he was making an effort to be more positive. “Anyway, at least I’m getting more weekend catering gigs. That’ll help.”

“Yeah.” Zoro found it hard to sound enthusiastic about this: six-day working weeks were becoming his boyfriend’s regular pattern. 

“I’ve been trying out some new recipes... Thought maybe you could road test them for me, come over for lunch Sunday.”

“Got plans. How about Saturday?”

“I’m catering, for a golden wedding anniversary. I’ll be cooking most of the daytime, delivering in the evening.” Sanji sounded piqued. “What plans?”

“Kendo.”

“You competing again?”

“Not a tournament: local dojo’s hosting a drop-in session, taking on all-comers. Place has got a rep for a pretty tough fighting style, their sensei’s ex-Japanese Imperial Guard.”

“That sounds like a bundle of fun. I can see how you’d rather spend the day getting physical with some scary guys armed with sticks, than relax with me over an excellently-cooked lunch.”

“It’s good to fight shiai against different kendōka. The more opportunities I get to work on my kendo, the better prepared I’ll be for go-dan.”

“Okay, moss head, I get it. Eyes on the prize.” Sanji let out an exhale that was probably just smoke, but sounded like a sigh. “Then how about coming over for dinner Sunday, when you’re done playing samurai?”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.” Zoro paused for a moment; then asked, “You busy Friday night?”

“Oh crap, am I ever... I have a to-do list a foot long,” Sanji answered with a groan. “A shit-ton of emails, food orders to put in, invoices to chase up, two weeks’ worth of accounts, next month’s menus to think about, following up on marketing...” There was a short pause, before Sanji continued in slightly less discouraging tones. “Feel free to come over if you want... But I’ll probably be ploughing till midnight.”

Zoro grunted, knowing what this meant: that the chef would be working at his laptop, and wasn’t likely to welcome interruptions... or distractions. “Okay, forget it.”

“We’ve got Sunday evening.” 

“Yeah.” Zoro felt mildly pissed at how their weekend was going to pan out, but shit happened: both he and Sanji had life stuff that took up space. “I should be able to get to your place by five or thereabouts.”

“That’s fine. Have fun whacking people, moss-head.”

“Always do, shitty cook.”

Sanji’s dark chuckle came from the phone. “Try not to kill anyone at work.”

“Not gonna promise anything.”

There was another laugh, before the chef hung up. Zoro smiled wryly, before stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

Climbing the stairs to his and Luffy’s apartment, the air felt stale and used up. Zoro unlocked their apartment door; dropped his kendo bag and ditched his trainers, before heading through to the main room. Luffy lay full length on their sagging couch, wearing surf shorts and nothing else: a melting popsicle stuck in his mouth. “ ...‘Ey, Zowo.”

“Hey.” Zoro nodded at his roomie before heading through to his bedroom, where he stripped off as much of his clothing as possible, leaving himself wearing only his three-quarter length gym pants. Wandering shirtless and barefoot back through to the kitchen he opened the refrigerator and took out a cold beer, before heading into the lounge and slumping down in the armchair.

Luffy removed his popsicle long enough to ask, “Kendo good?”

“S’okay.” Zoro chugged on his beer. “Too fuckin’ hot.”

“Ehhh...” Luffy sighed. “It never used to be this hot in June. Global warming sucks.”

Taking another gulp of blessedly chilled beer, Zoro gestured at his friend with the bottle. “You go for that job interview, today? Counselor at that kids’ summer daycare place?”

“Oh yeah!” Luffy slurped on his popsicle. “I got it. Starting there Monday week.”

“Result.” The swordsman regarded his friend. “What they paying?”

“Peanuts. But it’s cool place - they have this whole room full of art stuff, and a games room, and a playground... And get this: we take the kids on trips – like, to the zoo and museums and movies. I’ll be paid to just show up and goof off all day!” Luffy laughed.

Zoro grunted. “And look after the kids.”

“Dahhhh...” Luffy waved his popsicle in a throw-away gesture. “Kids’re easy to look after.”

Raising an eyebrow, Zoro gave the younger man a level look. “You think?”

Luffy grinned. “It’ll be a blast. Plus I won’t have to work weekends, means I can hang out at the Ark... S’gonna be a good summer.”

Zoro didn’t recognise the name. “That some new club?”

“It’s that place by the river I told you ‘bout. The warehouse some guys squatted.” Luffy chomped off a big chunk of his popsicle and gulped it down whole, then scrunched up his face in pain. “Gahhhh! Ice cream headache!”

“So what’s this Ark place like?”

“Way cool. Me and ‘Sopp have been checking out the scene there... ‘Member, I told you about us hanging with those graffiti guys, couple months back?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the same crew been painting up the building, outside and inside – looks totally sick! S’all kindsa things going on – DJs and bands, and there’s this totally wacko guy there builds sculptures out of scrap metal. It’s a boss hangout.”

“How come the cops aren’t giving them grief, if the place is squatted?”

“Ehh, someone said there’s been a bunch of papers served by the company that owns the land or whatever... But getting an eviction notice through the courts? That’ll take ‘em months. Then they gotta enforce it.” Luffy grinned. “Meantime, we party hearty.”

Zoro tipped up his beer, draining it, before setting the empty bottle aside. “Carpe diem, huh.”

Luffy stripped the last of his melting popsicle off its stick with his teeth, before pointing at his friend with it. “Yup, me and Usopp are heading there Friday night. Come along, check it out. Sanji too!”

“He’s busy.” Zoro considered the prospect. “But yeah... Why the hell not.”

“Great!” Luffy beamed.

“They got a bar set up?”

“Usually someone selling cans and shit there... It’s pretty laid back, no-one gets in your face as long as you don’t cause any trouble.”

“Hhn.” Zoro refrained from commenting that Luffy had an affinity for attracting trouble that most people would regard as supernatural.

\--------------

Half an hour to go before _Bite Me_ ’s closing time on Friday afternoon, Sanji regarded the portions of unsold food still in his chiller cabinet and sighed.

_Going to have to figure out some way of downsizing, if things don’t pick up._

He’d simplified his menus this week, mindful of his decreased sales: trying to keep what he was offering as varied and attractive as possible. But in warm weather like this, no-one wanted anything too substantial. Smoothies and chilled drinks still sold well; things like flatbreads stuffed with falafels or baba ganouj with salad; light savoury or sweet pastries.

Sanji had benefited a lot from student custom, he was now beginning to realise. Since the local colleges had gone on summer break, footfall at _Bite Me_ was significantly down: not just students but also lecturers had been regular patrons of his cooking. It wasn’t just the income he missed, but also the lively chatter and diversity of the students hanging out around his stall at lunchtime. He still got custom from office workers and summer visitors to the city, but the combination of slower days, intensifying heat and dwindling profits wasn’t exactly making for a happy work environment.

It didn’t help that this weekend he and Zoro wouldn’t be seeing much of each other. _Bite Me_ ’s paperwork was piling up, and Saturday’s catering job would bring in some much-needed cashflow... But over the last month they’d spent only three nights together. The chef had been hoping to enjoy a leisurely Sunday with the swordsman... But now even that was off the agenda till Sunday night, because Zoro was going to be playing samurai with a bunch of other kendo obsessives in a dojo somewhere across town.

As this snarky thought surfaced, Sanji tried to reframe it.

_Kendo’s always gonna be a priority for him. And it’s not like we won’t get to see each other for the entire weekend: he’s coming over to my place afterwards._

Thinking about it that way helped. Zoro had every right to dedicate time to stuff that was important in his life, just as Sanji did. And it wasn’t like they didn’t talk on the phone pretty much every day. And when they did get together the sex was still mindfuckingblowing, the chef had absolutely no complaints whatsoever in that department. And right now he found himself thinking about a particular moment last Saturday night when he’d run his tongue along Zoro’s caramel skin, the swordsman slick with sweat and letting out a low groan as the chef bit down; arching his back off the bed and growling, _Oh fuck yeah –_

“Hey, do you have a cherry smoothie?”

Sanji jerked out of his NSFW reverie to find a blonde teenage girl in a sparkly crop top regarding him over _Bite Me_ ’s serving counter. Feeling blood surge into his face, he managed an unconvincing, “Uhm?” as his less-than-professional reply.

“Smoothies.” The girl pointed at his menu board at the back of Bite Me. “Says right up there you do ‘em.”

Sanji didn’t need to look behind him because he knew the board by heart. Usopp’s work: the lanky artist made a point of offering to sign-write the board afresh each week, every time Sanji changed up the bill of fare. Right now the board promised a selection of foods with a heat wave theme. _Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot?_ Usopp’s colourful script asked. _Then Chill Out with a Tasty Light Bite, or Keep Your Cool with our Special Summer Smoothies – Freshly made from your Favourite Fruits!_

Gathering a wide smile onto his face, Sanji nodded at the girl. “Of course, no problem: I can make a smoothie with whatever fruit you’d like.”

“Cherry,” stated the teen, in _Duh-I-just-told-you_ tones.

“Sure: cherry it is.” Sanji moved to his freezer, taking out frozen cherries and measuring a scoopful into his blender. “What other fruits would you like with that? I’ve got banana, pineapple, mango, blueberries...”

“Just cherry.”

Sanji paused; then measured out two more scoopfuls of cherries into the mixer. “Would you like it made with ice cream, or yoghurt? I have dairy-free options, including soya and coconut.”

“Eww, coconut?” The teenager made no attempt to conceal her disgust. “Just with ice cream, nothing weird.”

It took only a minute to whizz up the smoothie in the blender. Sanji poured the frothing chilled drink into a tall cardboard cup, added a straw to the rosy concoction, then proffered it across the counter. “One cherry ice cream smoothie, ice-cold and refreshing. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” The teenager took the drink and left her money on the counter, turning away with the total indifference of the young to social interaction with anyone in an older age bracket.

Sanji folded his arms on the counter and watched her go. “You’re welcome,” he pronounced to her oblivious back. Then his gaze wandered down the street... Where it met a more welcome sight. Ambling along in rhythm to music from an outsize pair of headphones overlayering a floppy white hat, sporting a red, green and gold Rasta singlet and cut-off khaki shorts, Usopp navigated his way between early-quitting office workers and heat-slowed tourists. He lifted one hand in salute as he approached _Bite Me_. “Yo, Sanji! Hook a brother up!”

Answering with his own lifted hand of welcome, Sanji turned to rinse out the blender, before assembling the necessary ingredients. Strong chilled coffee made freshly that afternoon and kept in the refrigerator; milk with a dash of real vanilla essence; muscovado sugar; chocolate syrup. He blitzed them all into a tawny foam, before pouring the drink into another tall cup with some ice cubes and finishing the whole thing off with a swirl of whipped cream and a dusting of chocolate.

As the iced mocha coffee was set on the counter in front of him, Usopp doffed his headphones and let out a sigh. “Oh man... Been fantasizing about this all afternoon.” He plunged his face into the drink and downed an impressive amount, before surfacing with a whipped cream moustache. “Ahhhhhh... Now I can die happy.”

Sanji propped his folded arms back on the counter, giving his friend a smile. “Dying from what, exactly? Because I gotta tell you: pronouncing imminent death shortly after consuming food I’ve prepared, probably isn’t going to boost my customer numbers.”

“Whoops.” Usopp swiped his whipped cream upper lip adornment away with the back of his hand, before giving the chef a repentant look. “Cancel my last remark. I meant to say: Wow, the taste of your iced mocha coffee can bring a dead man back to life.”

“Again with the death motif.” Sanji raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued. What leads your normally cheery disposition into thoughts of imminent mortality?”

Usopp hunched his shoulders slightly, took another swallow of his chilled drink, then pointed dramatically up at the sky. “Big yellow thing belong sky, send down mighty rays of fire. Usopp fear terrible curse of sunbeams that smite without mercy.”

“Maybe you need a bigger hat.”

Usopp touched the wide brim of his white sunhat and grinned. “Don’t diss the hat.”

“Okay.”

“Respect the hat.”

“Uh huh.”

Gulping another dose of iced coffee, Usopp gestured with his thumb. “Anyway. ‘Preciate the drink. Awesome, as ever.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Could you maybe also spare some ice for me to rub on my fevered brow? And maybe other parts of my anatomy?”

“Not without contravening several food hygiene regulations.” Sanji began wiping down the counter. “You been working today?”

“Uh huh, at home. Programming in a bunch of new scenarios for Going Merry.” Usopp sighed.

“How’s that going?”

Lifting one hand palm downwards, Usopp tipped it from side to side. “So-so. S’getting harder to create new stuff and get it up and running, without a ton of glitches cropping up. Coding I was working on today was a bitch.”

“I thought Going Merry was doing okay?” Sanji glanced at his friend. “The way Luffy talks, seemed like you guys have built up a big following of online gamers who are mad for it.”

Usopp gave a small grimace. “Yeah... Luffy: great at coming up with wacky creative ideas; but not exactly focused on the fine details of how we keep the fucking gamesite actually running. Yours truly has to hammer out all the nuts and bolts design shit. Not to mention, try to make sure we earn some money out of it.”

“Well, I guess it’s a competitive market.” Sanji started to clear away his preparation worktop, running water into the sink for washing up. “But neither of you depend just on Going Merry to make a living, do you?”

“No, guess not.” Usopp shrugged. “But having sunk a crazy amount of my life into creating Merry, I’d kinda like to keep her afloat and yielding some kind of income for the foreseeable. I’ve gotten a couple more web design jobs in the last month, but I’m not exactly awash with riches right now.”

“You and me both.” Sanji began sorting through food in the chiller cabinet: what he could keep for using next week, what would need to be taken away.

Usopp nodded, pursing his lips. “Business not great, huh?”

“Customer numbers have been way down, last couple weeks.” Sanji gestured out at the street. “In this heat, no-one wants to be walking around outside: they want to be lying down indoors with the air-con on. Plus half the city has gone on summer break, seems like.”

“Well yeah, students: migrant species, for sure. But they’ll be back, end of August.”

“Which makes maybe ten weeks where I’ve got to keep running on whatever passing trade comes my way.” The chef gestured at the mostly empty street.

“Ah.” Usopp scratched his head. “See your point. You running close to the red?”

“Closer than I’d like. I gotta do my accounts tonight: been putting it off, ‘cause I didn’t want to look at the numbers. But I’m pretty sure they’ll be telling a story I won’t be sharing with my bank manager.”

“Whoa. That sounds kinda stressful.” Usopp regarded his iced coffee glumly, before stuffing one hand into his pocket. “Lemme pay for my drink.”

“Forget it.” Sanji held up one hand. “You’ve done a bunch of stuff for me, Usopp. All that design work, handing out flyers, keeping my menu boards looking good... You earned that.”

“Seriously, dude,” Usopp interjected, “I can pay my way, and sounds like you need every penny right now.”

The chef shook his head. “I told you: gratis, it’s on the house. You dropping by here to hang out and talk is something I look forward to, y’know? Especially when things have been slow.”

“Well... Okay.” Usopp gave a small smile, but a slight frown stayed dug in around his eyebrows. “But if things got really bad, money-wise... You’d holler for help, right?”

“It won’t come to that.” Sanji shook his head, before starting on the washing up. “I’ll manage somehow. I’ve started getting more bookings for weekend catering work, looks like summer is gonna be good for that at least. That should help tide me over.”

“What, birthday parties and gigs like that?”

“All kinds of events. Tomorrow I’m laying on a spread for a golden wedding anniversary: catering for thirty people, with a sixties and seventies retro food theme.”

“Retro?” Usopp raised an eyebrow. “The hell kinda food do you cook for that? Jello salad with pineapple?”

“Something a bit more sophisticated. Although now that you mention it, Jello salad would make a nicely ironic centrepiece.”

Usopp necked the last of his mocha coffee, crunching the melting ice appreciatively. “Guess if you’re working tomorrow, you won’t be up for partying tonight.”

“You guess right.” Sanji rinsed out a bowl and added it to the stack of cleaned washing up.

“So I can’t tempt you to goof off for a few hours? Luffy was talking ‘bout heading down riverside, to that place I was telling you about. There’s usually a band or DJ on Friday nights, you and Zoro could come shake some bootie.”

“Tonight I have a cosy evening planned with me, my laptop, accounts, and paperwork.”

“Living the dream, hunh.” Usopp gestured upwards with both hands. “You do know what all work and no play does to you, right?”

“Stops the bank foreclosing on my livelihood and enables me to keep on running my business?” Sanji paused in his washing up to smirk at his friend.

“Okay, I give up.” Usopp crumpled his empty cup and lobbed it at the nearby trashcan, scoring a direct hit. “It’s almost like you’re some kind of _adult_ or something.”

“Yeah, after I get done with my accounts tonight I’m gonna review my pension plan.” Sanji snorted. “Have fun with Luffy.”

“Pretty much guaranteed.” Usopp straightened up from the counter. “Well, I better head onwards through the sun-parched mean city streets. Don’t work too hard, eh dude?”

“Thanks. And I’ll take you up on that offer to hang out, when things get less crazy.”

After Usopp had gone Sanji finished cleaning down the food stall’s interior, before pulling down and locking the heavy metal shutters. Pausing only to light a cigarette, he shouldered his backpack – with his day’s takings – and picked up a couple of carrier bags that contained _Bite Me_ ’s perishable leftovers.

It took only ten minutes to walk a block to where a homeless food kitchen welcomed his leftover donations; after that was done, Sanji headed homewards.

The heat of the day lingered in the city spaces, but at least the sun had dropped down enough that buildings were casting some welcome shadow. Sanji opted for a route that wasn’t the most direct, but that took him away from the rush-hour traffic: through some pedestrianised precincts, and across a tree-enclosed square.

On one of the trees someone had fastened a poster that caught the chef’s eye: he stopped to read it.

_UNION SQUARE SUMMER EVENTS: A TASTE OF EUROPE!_

Underneath some artwork of fruits and vegetables and bottles of wine, the writing continued.

 _European Market, Saturday & Sunday - 50+ stalls - Traditional foods, regional specialities, fine wines and artisanal crafts - Sample world-famous cuisines of Italy, France, Spain, Germany, Greece... And more!!!_

Normally the use of three exclamation marks would raise Sanji’s hackles, but he found himself smiling.

_Sample the cuisines of Europe, huh?_

He had to work tonight and all day tomorrow; and it was kind of a downer that he and Zoro wouldn’t be able to hook up till Sunday evening... But this market sounded worth a visit, he could go check it out on Sunday morning. Maybe he’d even find some ideas for new additions to _Bite Me_ ’s menu.

_Alors, on y va._

Letting out a stream of smoke into the warm summer evening air, Sanji strolled onwards, heading for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
>  jigeiko = freeform practice  
>  shiai = match, competition  
>  gaki = punks  
>  brûléed = grilled  
>  Alors, on y va = So, let's do it
> 
> General writer notes:  
> Finally I got this next instalment of A Wild Combination finished. It took me frikkin ages, 'cause: REASONS. 2020 being an absolute write-off of a year. Like most of the rest of the world, I'm having job insecurity and money worries and health anxiety and watching the omnishambles our political 'leaders' are making of our beautiful planet. Just, WTF??
> 
> But creativity is therapy, so I've used some of the enforced encarceration of lockdown as writing time. And here is the result. Like the previous fic (Stories Left On Our Skin) it will be heading in some dark/angsty directions; and like SLOOS it will delve into backstory (Sanji's, this time). As before, no apologies, I'm still obsessed with how the past shapes our characters. As before I’ll flag specific possible triggers for readers in the notes at the start of the relevant chapters.
> 
> I also want to give massive gratitude and love here to all readers who've left kudos and comments, or recc'ed my fics to others. I don't always have time to respond individually to every reader comment, but I read every one of them and they give me such warm fuzzy feels. Thank you SO MUCH. <3 As other fic writers here on AO3 have commented, getting reader feedback means a hella lot to us. It's really easy to quit writing fics (for a number of reasons), and I def kept away for months from continuing with this particular fic... Basically, it almost never got written. But then I re-read some of your lovely comments and that reminded me how valuable it is to share stuff that makes other people feel good, especially at this time. So, yeah. I kicked my own ass and sat down at the keyboard to write. Without you folks, I am nothing.
> 
> Last but not least: it has felt kinda surreal to be writing this stuff when the real world is going through so much massive upheaval and change. I almost broke off halfway to write a modern AU ZoSan fic set in a COVID lockdown city - but then realised if I didn't escape at least some of the time from it, my mental health would be fried. So the real world is going into other my creative work: poetry, songs, activism and teaching.
> 
> Sending you all the biggest hugs and love imaginable. Stay safe, take care, keep the faith. See you on the other side.
> 
> <3 Wordweaver


	2. Here Comes The Weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snagging his hoodie from the couch and knotting it round his waist, Zoro flicked out a hand towards Luffy as he passed him, swatting the younger man upside the head. “Chill the fuck out, hyperdork. It’s the weekend: I don’t have to run to schedule.”
> 
> “Like you ever do,” his roomie groused. “Lucky we didn’t plan to meet you there, by midnight we’d be sending out search parties.”
> 
> “Search for this.” Zoro gave him the finger.
> 
> “Hey, let’s just get on our merry,” Usopp interjected, ever the peacemaker.
> 
> “Huh.” Luffy snorted, and headed out the door.

* * *

_Here comes, comes the weekend  
Hear it calling like a siren eh oh eh oh  
We don't want no problems  
We don't like them, no, keep it movin'_

_\- P!nk_

* * *

“It’s Friiiiiiiday night, party people... Are you ready to roll?”

Usopp’s summons reached Zoro in the bathroom, where he was towelling himself dry. An instant later Luffy’s answering shout reached him too. “Ready already! ‘Cept Zoro’s still taking a shower, he’s been in there _forever_ _.”_

Wrapping a towel round his waist before opening the bathroom door, Zoro threw a response down the hall in the direction of his two friends as he headed for his bedroom. “Had to wait till you’d finished dicking about in there, asshole.”

“Come ooooonnnn!” came Luffy’s groaned response. “We’re gonna miss stuff.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Inside his room Zoro tossed the towel aside, before pulling on a pair of cropped lightweight pants and a blue tank top.

When he went through to their apartment’s main room, Usopp was sitting on the end of the couch while Luffy lurked in the far doorway. “Hey, ‘Sopp.”

“Yo, dude.” Usopp high-fived Zoro’s upraised hand. “You good to go?”

“Yeah, lemme grab a beer from the ‘fridge.”

“There’ll be beer _there.”_ Luffy pointed this out with an impatient frown.

“There better be.” Zoro detoured into the kitchen and extracted a can from the refrigerator; pausing to yell, “You guys want one too?”

“Yeah, sweet.” Usopp’s affirmative answer was as predictable as Luffy’s response.

“ _C’mon_ , Zoro! Wanna get going!”

Returning to the other room, Zoro tossed one can to Usopp before cracking his own open and taking a chilly swallow, letting out a long breath. “...Fuck, yeah.”

“Tough day at the office?” Usopp got to his feet, opening his own beer.

“If they don’t fix that fucking air con by next week, I’m gonna start taking hostages.”

“Guys, _let’s go!”_ Luffy was practically jigging on the spot. “Walk and talk at the same time, geez!”

Snagging his hoodie from the couch and knotting it round his waist, Zoro flicked out a hand towards his roomie as he passed him, swatting the younger man upside the head. “Chill the fuck out, hyperdork. It’s the weekend: I don’t have to run to schedule.”

“Like you ever do,” Luffy groused. “Lucky we didn’t plan to meet you there, by midnight we’d be sending out search parties.”

“Search for this.” Zoro gave him the finger.

“Hey, let’s just get on our merry,” Usopp interjected, ever the peacemaker.

“ _Huh_.” Luffy snorted, and headed out the door.

The night air felt pleasantly cool against Zoro’s head as they walked, his hair still damp from the shower. The ice-cold beer felt good too, sliding down his throat; all too soon it was gone. He crushed the can in his fist and dropped it into a trashcan as they passed, before letting out a resounding belch.

“Seven on the Richter scale,” commented Usopp, before taking a more leisurely gulp of his own beer.

“You planning on getting shitfaced tonight?” Luffy enquired, giving Zoro a mischievous grin.

“Yeah, if you’re buying.”

“Like hell.” Luffy snickered.

Rolling his shoulders and feeling them crack, Zoro rubbed one hand through his drying hair. “Depends what else is going down. There gonna be anything apart from a roomful of techno music?”

“Dunno,” Luffy shrugged. “S’always all kindsa groovy shit happening.”

The swordsman grunted, not exactly enlightened. “How big’s this Ark place?”

“Huge!” Luffy gave one of his boundless gestures, almost knocking Usopp’s beer from his hand: with practiced ease, the lanky artist evaded his young friend’s sweeping arms. “DJs’ll be set up downstairs on the stage in the main space - but there’s rooms off it, upper floors - and a balcony you can look down on the stage from - and weekends sometimes there’s food there! - and the Freaks are all round the place making stuff...”

“Freaks?” Zoro raised an eyebrow.

“S’a bunch of guys who build crazy metal sculptures out of scrap and put ‘em all over the building. Like bizarro aliens and robots – some of them light up and move and stuff, they’re totally dope!”

“Uh huh.”

“Plus there’s a way you can get on the roof,” Luffy enthused. “You can see clear over the river from up there.”

The swordsman side-eyed his friend. “Right.”

Beside him, Usopp laughed. “Fret not, dude. There’ll be someplace there to hang which won’t be full of dancing fools or weirdo artists. And there will be booze aplenty: Usopp’s cast iron guarantee.”

When they finally reached the industrial area that led down to the riverside, Zoro had planned an escape strategy. In the event that this Ark place proved too full of assholes raving to loud dance tracks, he would sink a few beers then make his excuses and head back home, buying another six pack en route.

Luffy was walking slightly ahead of him and Usopp, along an access road that appeared to lead nowhere in particular. Suddenly he turned off, disappearing down an alley between two blank-faced industrial units. Following after, Zoro couldn’t help noticing they were heading into an increasingly run-down area. Large access doorways were shuttered, windows cracked or boarded up. It looked, frankly, like a shithole... And _not_ a good place to be wandering on a Friday night, unless you were looking for trouble.

“Oi, Luffy - where the hell is this place? You sure this is the right way?”

Luffy sniggered. “ _You_ , worried about getting lost? LOLs.”

“Ha frikkin’ ha. Where you taking us, asshole? This looks like skid row.”

“S’just a bit further. C’mon!” And with no further explanation, Luffy sped up.

Zoro looked at Usopp, who gave him a reassuring smile. “Trust us, dude. I know the neighbourhood’s kinda fugly, but it’s cool: we’re nearly there.”

Ten minutes further into the maze of back-alleys and buildings, Luffy suddenly stopped at a large rusty metal door set into an archway in a brick wall: thumped on it three times with his fist, before stepping back and giving Zoro a cheery grin.

The door swung open outwards, disclosing a tall black guy with dreadlocks and broad shoulders who approximately filled the space in the doorframe. He regarded Luffy and grunted. “Hey... What up, Monkeyman.”

“Hey, Omar! Me and some friends come to party.”

The guy glanced at Usopp and Zoro, then nodded. “Sweet, man... Go on in.”

The doorway led the trio through the wall and into an open lot, and beyond that rose the tall shape of the squatted warehouse that was their destination. As they walked towards it Zoro asked Luffy wryly, “Door security?”

“Omar?” Luffy laughed. “He’s okay. He makes sure no trouble gets inside.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro didn’t doubt it. “How about if trouble kicks off inside? He deal with that too?”

“Doesn’t kick off. Everyone who comes here just wants to have a good time.” Luffy gave his roommate one of his high-octane grins. “Ark’s the shit... Like, anyone can come here and do what they want, long as it doesn’t hurt somebody. Good place to hang. No-one wants to mess that up.”

It sounded improbable. In fact, it sounded like sparkly unicorn fantasy bullshit. Yet Zoro found some part of himself actually wanting to believe it. This was what Luffy did, with his big beaming grin and juggernaut enthusiasm for everyone and everything. In Luffy-Land most people were cool, and the world was a mostly fun place to hang out. And despite Zoro’s own experiences to the contrary, he had learned that resistance was futile.

Beside him, Usopp chuckled. “Go with it, dude.”

Zoro looked at the building they were approaching. The high walls were patchworked with graffiti art in all colours of the rainbow; light was spilling out of a doorway, with the dub-dub-dub of repetitive beats from a sound system somewhere inside. The sound of voices and laughter reached them, a small crowd of people spilling outside from the entrance.

_What the hell. Worse places to spend a Friday night._

Once inside Luffy was instantly absorbed into the thumping beats and flashing lights of the main space. Usopp steered Zoro to an upstairs room, where a guy was selling cans of beer from a table doing duty as a makeshift bar; after which the lanky artist got immersed in conversation with two graffiti artists. Zoning out from the technicalities of different spray nozzles and paint covering qualities, Zoro decided to explore his own way around the warehouse.

A couple of hours and several beers later, Zoro was ensconced in the balcony above the Ark’s main space: far enough away from the dance music for it to be tolerable, and close enough to the source of alcohol that getting a drink didn’t involve a major expedition.

Luffy was still downstairs dancing. Or maybe outside toking. Or somewhere else in the Ark’s labyrinthine interior, spray-painting something onto a wall. It seemed like he knew approximately ninety per cent of the building’s occupants, or at least they knew him. Zoro wasn’t surprised: he knew from experience that his roommate’s ability to befriend had no boundaries. Drop Luffy on an alien planet, within a few hours he’d be throwing humanity’s first extra-terrestrial keg party.

Taking a swig from his can of beer Zoro gazed down at the dancers in the flashing lights and smoke-hazed space below. There seemed to be some kind of game happening down there involving hats: gyrating raver types were weaving through the crowd and bestowing random wacky headgear on the dancers, who reacted with glee as if they’d been crowned as royalty.

“Not going down there to strut your stuff?” Usopp’s voice broke through the background noise. Zoro looked round: the artist wandered out of the general throng to stand next to his friend, peering over the balcony rail at the dance floor below.

“When they play anything but fuckin’ techno, maybe.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Usopp grinned.

“Seen Luffy?”

“Not for a while. He’s probably spawning chaos somewhere.” Usopp folded his arms on the railing. “Like it here? Techno notwithstanding?”

Zoro took a hit on his beer. “...Yeah. Seems like a cool place.”

“It’s different, yeah?” Usopp took a pull on his own drink. “Like Luffy said: a place folks can just be what they want.”

“Uh huh.”

The artist gave him a sidelong look. “I may be misreading this, but I get the impression you’re not exactly feeling the love in here.”

Zoro idly drew a circle with one finger in the condensation on his beer can. “Man, you know I think techno sucks. You weren’t expecting to see me down there.”

“No, that’s a given: but Usopp’s Radar Of Empathy is detecting negative vibes emanating from your general direction. Spending a week working in tropical hell harshing your buzz?”

The swordsman grunted. “Don’t remind me. Gotta be back there Monday.”

“Least it’s the weekend.” Usopp took a sip of his own beer. “Time to kick back and let it all hang loose.”

“Yeah.”

“All work and no play et cetera,” Usopp intoned sagely. “Speaking of which: I tried luring Sanji to come with tonight, but he said he was too busy. You seeing him this weekend?”

“Yeah, Sunday night.”

“He’s working tomorrow too, huh.”

“Yeah... Catering for some fancy-dancy family party somewhere.”

“That boy needs to slow down. It’s way too hot to be as busy as he is.” Usopp propped his chin on one hand, gazing idly down at the dancing crowd in the space beneath them. “He’d like it here.”

Zoro didn’t doubt it. “Guess he’ll come check it out sometime.”

“Yeah: ‘cos it only took Luffy six months to drag your ass here.” Usopp chuckled. “So, you and Sanji hooking up Sunday night?”

Letting a meaningful grin lift one corner of his mouth, Zoro gave his friend a sidelong glance. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“Oh, _shit_.” Usopp rolled his eyes. “You ever think about anything else?”

Gesturing meaningfully with his almost empty beer can, Zoro smirked wider. “Refill?”

“It’s my sincere hope that you have hidden depths that none of us have ever glimpsed, which Sanji has somehow got access to.”

“Fuck off. That shit-cook’s even more of a perv than I am.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” Usopp snickered. “Anyways... It’s cool you’re seeing him Sunday night.” At Zoro giving him a look, Usopp shrugged. “All I’m saying is, you seem kind of bummed and hanging with Sanji usually turns your frown upside down. So s’all good, yeah.”

“This week’s just been a bitch.” Zoro took a pull on his beer, draining the can.

“I refer you to my earlier statement: it’s the weekend, dude. Let it go. Party hearty, sleep late, do what you feel like...”

“That’s the plan.” Zoro shrugged. “Got kendo planned, Sunday.”

“Where you fighting?”

“Wani Dojo. Over south side.”

“This some kind of official thing, like a tournament?”

“No... Like a friendly, kinda. Chance to fight some shiai with their high-level kendōka.”

“They likely to be good?”

“Their sensei used to be Japanese Imperial Guard: so yeah, probably be a bunch of badass ninjas.” Zoro gave him a sidelong grin.

Usopp shook his head slowly. “And this is what puts a smile on your face.”

“After the week I’ve had? Gimme me a big stick and a room full of fuckers to swing it at, I’m happy.”

“You are truly disturbing, and I’m so very glad you are my good friend.” Usopp gestured at Zoro’s beer can. “Want another?”

The swordsman handed the empty to him. “Keep ‘em comin’.”

A few beers later, the course of nature took Zoro on a mission to find if the Ark’s many weird and wonderful spaces included somewhere he could take a piss. Predictably this took a while: afterwards he attempted to return to the balcony, yet somehow found himself wandering through a series of rooms on yet another upper level of the warehouse.

There was still music emanating from somewhere: what sounded like industrial rock drilling through the space, its ragged edges bouncing off the bare concrete walls. Fewer people were about and this part of the building looked unclaimed for party purposes, with only minimal lighting in the form of caged bulbs hooked up at intervals. As Zoro walked through gaps in cinder-block partition walls, a weird kind of burning smell caught in his throat. Ahead of him, a doorway flickered blue-white, as if lightning played beyond it. The music seemed to be coming from there, so he followed it in.

_‘Are you motherfuckers ready / for the new shit?_   
_Stand up and admit / tomorrow's never coming._   
_This is the new shit / Stand up and admit.’_

Marilyn Manson hammered at Zoro’s eardrums almost loudly enough to drown out the ear-splitting grinding that came from the far side of the space, where a fountain of white-hot sparks burst from under the blade of an angle grinder being wielded by someone wearing what looked like way too little clothing for the task in hand.

As Zoro advanced the sparks stopped for a moment, before the person repositioned themself and bent over what they were working on again, sending up another torrent of glowing metal fire with a shriek of tool against steel.

Glancing around the space Zoro spotted chunks of hammered and welded metal sculptures littering the floor and walls: scrap that still hinted at the machinery it had once been part of. Car fenders and washer drums and springs and pistons, bashed and warped and melded together to make new creations. Objects that echoed things Zoro had seen bolted to walls or propped in corners elsewhere in the Ark: weird metal masks, half tribal, half robotic, with glowing LED eyes and pointed steel teeth. A shark with gnashing jaws swimming along a wall, pursuing a school of flickering silver fish. A towering ten foot giant with a horned Viking helmet, leaning on a huge rusty sledgehammer in one corner of a room, a lightning bolt sparking blue across his trashcan chest.

Zoro turned idly on his heel, taking in the wreckage around him; not realising he was stepping a little too close to the sculptor until he was brought up short by the sting of sparks against his arm and a loud voice yelling, “Oi, oi!! Man at work, here!”

The music cut out and Zoro turned round, to find the wielder of the angle-grinder glaring at him. Or presumably glaring at him: what little of the man’s face Zoro could see around the outsize pair of welding goggles looked to be wearing a scowl. Laying aside the tool with a clatter, the man rested his fists on his hips. “You itching to be set on fire?”

Folding his arms, the swordsman shook his head. “Just taking a look around.”

“Then stand the fuck out the way, bro. I get into working on a piece, I don’t keep an eye out for civilian casualties.”

Zoro gestured with his thumb at some of the sculptures in progress around the room. “All these yours?”

The man glanced around. “Yeah.”

“You make all that metal shit put up all over this place, too?”

Letting out a grunt, the man gave something between a shrug and a nod. “Most of it. Some of it got worked up by the rest of my crew.”

“What’s it for?”

The sculptor let out a harsh laugh. “ _For?_ I don’t make shit _for_ anything, bro. I make it ‘cause it wants to be made.”

“That some kinda arty bullshit?”

Reaching up to his face, the guy lifted his welding goggles away to reveal a pair of darkly sardonic eyes, heavily outlined in black.

 _Marilyn Manson,_ Zoro thought. _Figures._

“Well, this is the last place I expected to find a fuckin’ art critic.” The guy grinned evilly. “Either that, or you’re just an annoying asshole.”

Letting a provocative grin creep onto his own face, Zoro snorted. “Okay, now you ruined it. I was about to tell you I liked some of that shit.”

Unexpectedly, the sculptor let out a harsh laugh. Before sitting down on a battered metal stool and pushing a shock of grimy blue-dyed hair back out of his eyes. “Fuck it. I was about ready to take a break, anyway. Want a drink?” And he reached out and scooped up two bottles: coke and Jack Daniels, in that order.

Looking around Zoro spotted a dented storage drum: dragged it across, before sitting on it and nodding at the whiskey. “Fuck yeah.”

The sculptor produced two large plastic cups and sloshed coke and whiskey into one, then cocked an eyebrow at Zoro; who grimaced slightly. “Straight up. Don’t like that sickly shit.”

“Purist, huh.” The man poured a stiff treble into the other cup, then handed it across. “Down the hatch.”

After the good burn from his first swig, Zoro nodded at the other guy. “Thanks.”

“Always happy to entertain an art lover.” The sculptor sank what looked like half of his drink in one hit, then held out his huge and grimy hand. “Franky.”

“Zoro.” Zoro shook it: the man’s skin felt rough, a strong grip tightening briefly before letting go.

“No shit?” Franky’s face creased into an incredulous grin. “Forget your mask?”

“Different name, asshole. Single R.”

The sculptor chuckled lowly. “Whatever you say, bro. So, what brings you up into the lonely heights?”

“Followed the music.”

“Usually it keeps people away. Why I crank it up so loud... That, and so’s I can hear it over this.” Franky gestured at the angle-grinder.

“You work up here to keep out the way of the raving masses?”

“Yup.” Franky tugged at a boilersuit undone to his waist, its arms knotted low around his hips: bare tattooed chest as sweaty and grimy as his hands and face. “Creative juices flow better without bystanders. I like to work with plenty space, and I like to work loud.”

“Noticed that.” Zoro took another swallow of liquor.

“Haven’t seen you round here before,” Franky commented.

“Coupla friends been hanging here a few months, always talkin’ about how great this place is. Thought I’d come check it out.”

“Yeah? Who’sat?”

“Usopp, and Luffy.”

“Captain Chaos?” Franky chuckled. “I know him. Fuckin’ livewire. Comes in here and tries monkeyin’ with my tools and shit, wants me to build him a Transformer.”

“Just don’t let him get his hands on that angle grinder.”

“Way ahead of you. So you’re a pal of Luffy’s, hunh? He comes here a lot. Got a lot of friends among the spookies.” Zoro cocked one eyebrow, and Franky elaborated. “What I call the folks who hang out here. Y’know, cuz they got few places else to go. Party-goers, street folks. Activists, troublemakers, painters, scuzzball artists. My crew of fellow freaks. Gimme your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, an’ all that.” He winked. “Gettin’ harder out there in the big bad world, bro. F’you exist on the margins you wind up livin’ in the shadows: step out into the light, you might end up getting busted. Better to be a spookie and haunt this place, than nowhere at all.”

Zoro’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He slid it out and checked the screen: a text from Usopp.

_‘yo – where u at? L & me been lookin all over’_

Quickly typing _‘upstairs’_ , Zoro waited for a response. Which came in the form of confused punctuation.

_‘? ?'  
_

“Your friends stalking you?” Franky was pouring more coke and Jack into his mug, evidently having finished off his first round.

“Yeah. Where the hell are we exactly, in this fuckin’ maze?”

The big man chuckled. “Tell ‘em you’re in Franky’s den. Luffy’ll know how to get here.”

This proved a correct prediction, and within five minutes of Zoro receiving Usopp’s thumbs-up emoji Luffy bounced into the room followed by the lanky artist. “Woooo, Franky! Zoro found your hideout.”

“Not ‘sactly a closely-guarded secret,” Franky retorted.

“Whatcha making?” Luffy zeroed in on the metal sculpture in front of them, poking at it with one finger. “S’it gonna be another robot?”

“Haven’t decided.” Franky exchanged a homie handshake with Usopp. “Oi, quit touching that, fuckhead!”

“Ow.” Luffy sucked one finger. “This thing is really _sharp_.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Franky plucked Luffy away by the scruff of his neck. “Don’t monkey around with my work, kiddo. You know the rules.”

“We thought maybe you’d snuck out,” Usopp addressed Zoro, sitting down astride another storage drum.

“Or got lost,” Luffy added.

“Just went exploring.” Zoro drained his cup, savouring the last bite of the spirits. He cocked an eye at his younger friend: perched on top of Luffy’s tousled hair was an incongruous straw hat. “The fuck are you wearing?”

“Bad-ass, huh?” Luffy patted the hat with a grin. “A guy gave it me when I was dancing. Hey, whiskey! Cool. You guys wanna do shots?”

Franky’s large hand closed around the bottle, lifting it up out of the younger man’s reach. “You come up here to clean me out?”

“We got rum! Show ‘em, Usopp.”

The long-nosed artist produced a bottle of Havana Club with a flourish. “Purchased at deep discount not half an hour ago from an obliging purveyor of all things blitzable.”

“That little punk Miguel hocking knocked-off hooch again?” Franky nodded toward the bottle of rum with a broad grin. “Little Cuban will go down _super_.”

“Got some green too, f’r those that want to partake.” Usopp tapped his pocket.

“Could hit the heights if that’s the plan,” Franky responded, rubbing his chin.

“Get smashed on the roof, yeah!” Luffy punched the air with one hand, and threw his other arm round Zoro’s neck.

Hitting the heights entailed following Franky along a series of dimly-lit passages, through a padlocked steel door to which the blue-haired man produced a key, and clambering up a creaking metal ladder to an access hatch which was also padlocked.

“This VIPs-only, or what?” Zoro stepped out onto the roof and smacked dust off his hands from their onerous journey.

“Don’t want any yahoos dancing about up here,” Franky pronounced, stashing the key away. “Some fucktard takes a dive off the roof and winds up street pizza, that’d bring the heat down on this place pretty damn fast.”

“Woo hoo!” Luffy was already at the roof’s edge, dropping to sit with his legs dangling over it. “Check it out!”

“Speaking of.” Zoro cut Franky a wry look, before the three of them wandered over towards the younger man.

“Lookit the lights. You can see way down the river to the Wolf Bridge.” Luffy swung his feet idly, leaning back on his hands. “I’ll bet f’it was daylight we could see our apartment from here.”

Easing down to sit cross-legged beside his friend, Zoro looked around and grunted. “Maybe.”

“C’mon, ‘Sopp – take a look,” Luffy encouraged.

“I’m good right here.” Usopp spoke from further back, keeping several feet from the roof edge. “I’ve got that whole allergy-to-falling-from-heights thing.”

“You gotta face your fear, chickenshit. That’s the only way.” Luffy craned his neck, holding his newly-acquired hat on as he peered downwards. “It’s not that high.”

“You know what works for me? Staying waaayyyy back from the edge.” Usopp pulled out a baggie of grass and began skinning up. “That, and a little self-medication.”

“Who’s got the rum?” Zoro glanced around.

“Hah, me!” Luffy raised it in one outstretched hand.

“Fuckin’ drop that off the roof and I’ll drop you after it,” the swordsman promised.

Snickering, Luffy upended the bottle of Havana and took a gulp, before waggling the bottle in Zoro’s direction.

Some time later, the level in both bottles had fallen perilously low and no-one up there was feeling any pain. Usopp had progressed to horizontal, smoking the last of the weed. He handed it on to Franky, who took a hit and held it for a long stretch: finally exhaling with noisy satisfaction, before he offered the joint to Zoro.

The swordsman shook his head. “Nah, thanks.”

Leaning across, Franky handed on the joint to Luffy, before sitting back. “Don’t wanna mix your poisons?”

“Yup. Fine with this.” Zoro lifted the almost-dead bottle of Havana.

“Hhn.” Franky grunted an acknowledgement, before picking up his own bottle of Jack and holding it up to the dim night sky. “Bros, we are super fucked. I need more coke. And we’re about outta liquor.”

“Last licks.” Zoro offered him the rum, but Franky shook his head. “No way, man. Can’t drink that stuff straight: that way I can taste it. Gotta be with coke, every time.”

“Guhh.” Zoro grimaced. “You always had weird tastes?”

Flexing his arms, Franky sniggered. “Bro, you have no fuckin’ idea. They don’t call me Freaky Franky for nothing.”

“You do this wacked-up art shit for a living? Like, sell some of the stuff you make?”

“Heh, no... I told ya, I make ‘em ‘cause they want to be made. No-one buys sculptures made from junk.”

“Bet some rich asshole would.”

“I got a day job.” Franky said this dismissively. “Repairs and servicing, shit like that... No problem picking up work, businesses always looking to hire guys who know their way around a crescent wrench.”

“You mean like auto shop work?”

“Vehicles, plant, premises... I c’n pretty much fix up anything. Trained in mechanical engineering; then electronics.”

“For real?” Zoro looked at the older man. “You study those at college?”

“Eight years in the Merchant Marine.” Franky grinned. “Worked my way up to first assistant engineer, before I got my medical discharge.”

“Yeah? You see any action?”

“Nope. Industrial fuckin’ accident did for me: crankcase blew on the ship I was on.”

“Whoa...” The swordsman grimaced. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Took out a bulkhead and two other crew. I got off light.” Franky knocked one knuckle on the side of his head, then flexed his elbow. “Gotta steel plate in my skull, and enough metalwork in my arm to make every damn airport detector I ever go through play a symphony.”

“Franky’s half-man, half robot,” Luffy declaimed, from his perch on the roof edge.

The sculptor gave a rough laugh. “Sez you, Monkeyboy.”

“Shitty way to end your time in the Marine,” commented Zoro.

“Coulda been worse. Gave me a free education, and got to see a lot of cool places. That’s where I got these,” Franky gestured at his tattoos. “One from every place we docked at. Then after I got out, I had a bunch of scar tissue to cover up... So I kept going with the ink.”

“Your employers don’t give you any shit about ‘em?”

Franky tugged at his overalls still knotted round his waist. “Once you got a pair of these on, covers up pretty much everything.”

Zoro nodded towards the older man’s hair. “ ‘Cept the blue rinse.”

The sculptor snorted. “Look who’s talkin’.”

Behind them on the roof, Usopp enquired sleepily, “Hey... Any of you guys know what time it is?”

Franky yawned loudly, then gave a short laugh. “Time to hit the sack.”

Tugging his phone out of his pants pocket, Zoro checked the screen: it showed a little after four A.M. “Or go find breakfast. Sun’ll be up in a few.”

“Breakfast?” Luffy looked round hopefully.

“Now you did it,” Usopp snickered.

“Mm, yeah!” Luffy swung himself up to his feet and stretched out both arms with a jaw-cracking yawn, then grinned at them. “I want waffles.”

“You got any money?” Zoro asked dryly. “ ‘Cause I’m tapped out.”

Luffy turned his gaze hopefully to Usopp, who was now sitting up: but the lanky artist just shook his head. “Don’t look at me, dude. Blown all my ready on smoke and shinny.”

“Dawww...” Luffy looked crestfallen for a few seconds, then perked up. “Waitaminnit, we got frozen waffles at home!” His smile rekindled.

Zoro held out a hand to Usopp, helping the other man to his feet. “You comin’ back to ours?”

Usopp yawned and scratched his head. “Okay to crash on your couch?”

“Knock yourself out.” Zoro glanced at Franky. “Probably got enough waffles to go round, you want to come back to ours for breakfast.”

Franky waved one hand. “Thanks, bro: but nah, I’ll pass. Gonna head back to my place and sack out.”

The swordsman nodded. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

Chuckling, the sculptor stood up and dusted roof grit off his overalls. Behind him the sky was just beginning to lighten to a pearly pre-dawn blue. “Any time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here, except a big yooj THANK YOU <3 <3 <3 for all your comments and kudos and general awesomeness. I'm so blown away by how positive readers' response has been, to me launching this next arc of AWC at you: I hope you enjoy it. This whole fic is written (just editing now), so I'll aim to post new chapters regularly (every few days).
> 
> Public safety announcement: Usopp has the right idea, about not mixing getting high from substances with literally getting high on the edge of tall buildings. I met someone a couple of years ago who fell backwards off a friend's apartment balcony while at a party there, fell four floors and smashed her pelvis to bits. She was lucky to survive, and spent a looooooong time in hospital and in recovery. Happy ending: she's OK now (largely due to the fact that she is a belly dancer and has superb core strength and fitness), but stll gets PTSD flashbacks and headaches. Be careful when you're getting off your face: do it with friends who will stop you from doing risky things involving heights, machinery or moving vehicles. Party hearty, and go home healthy. <3


	3. Taste Of Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen wiped swiftly under eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh shit. I wasn’t going to do this. Is my mascara smudged?”
> 
> Sanji checked. “You look lovely.”
> 
> “You’re sweet.” She managed to smile again, with an effort. “Sorry. I bet having some strange woman crying in front of you isn’t part of the catering deal.”
> 
> The chef pretended to consider. “Well, I guess I could develop it as a side line of the business. Maybe I could call it Comfort Food.”

* * *

_That taste of honey  
Tasting much sweeter than wine_

_\- The Beatles_

* * *

Sanji’s alarm went off on Saturday at seven A.M., dragging him up from sleep. Groping for the clock without opening his eyes, Sanji hit snooze and lay with one arm over his eyes.

_Just five more minutes._

He could so easily fall back asleep. His body was still heavy with it, and if he didn’t open his eyes he could just stay in this timeless dreamspace, drift for a little while longer...

The alarm shrilled again, and this time he managed to sit all the way up before hitting the off switch. Before blinking reluctantly at the summer daylight that was sneaking its way round the curtains, then letting out a sigh.

Sanji threw back the sheet and swung out of bed, before crossing to the window and throwing open the curtains: wincing slightly at the brightness.

_Coffee cigarette coffee cigarette_

He obeyed the inner directives, hauling on a t-shirt and shorts before stumbling through to the kitchen. Setting coffee to brew and then lighting up his first cig of the day, standing at the open window and mentally ordering everything that was jostling to take precedence inside his head. The street outside looked quiet: too early on a Saturday for most people to be out and about.

The nicotine hit cleared his head, and the coffee’s rich smell brought Sanji the rest of the way out of just-awakened fog. He poured himself a big mug and added cream, then took it and his cigarette into the main room to finish surfacing in more comfort.

Sitting with his legs stretched out along the couch, the chef switched on his phone and took a gulp of coffee. A ping signalled someone had messaged him: tapping it open, Sanji read the thread.

 _ **LuffyDaMonkey: 02.32am**_ _hey_ _Sanjiiiiii wish u were here!!!!_

Accompanying the message was a blurry photo of city lights in darkness, vague shapes of buildings just visible. It was followed by a string of subsequent messages.

 _**LuffyDaMonkey: 02.35am** _ _we’re on a roof_

 _**LuffyDaMonkey: 02.38am** _ _getting wasted :P_

 _**LuffyDaMonkey: 02.41am** _ _me & Z & U_

 _**LuffyDaMonkey: 02.43am** _ _& Franky _

_**LuffyDaMonkey: 02.55am** _ _r u awake?_

 _**LuffyDaMonkey: 03.07am** _ _waaaake up Sanjiiiiii :o_

Sanji smiled wryly. He had been working at his desk till late last night, but even so he’d gotten to bed well before two-thirty A.M. Today he had to tackle a mammoth amount of cooking, and there was no way he could function if he was stumbling round in a pit of sleep deprivation.

Closing Luffy’s message thread, a mischievous thought occurred to the chef. He brought up Zoro’s number and wrote a short text.

_‘hey moss-head: u been partying on a roof again?’_

Taking a cue from Luffy’s approach, he sent the text, then followed it up with five more spaced at one-minute intervals.

_‘hear u 3 had a wild night out’_

_‘ & got wasted :o quelle surprise :/ ’_

_‘u feel good this fine summer morning?’_

_‘#hurts to live‘_

_‘ :D :D :D ’_

There was a minute or so where nothing happened. Sanji drank some more coffee and took a drag on his cigarette.

Then his phone chimed as a text landed.

_‘ Wrfdgvk ’_

A pause, then:

_‘Wtf shit cook?’_

Smirking, Sanji typed in a reply. _‘Rise & shine moss-head :p’_

Another brief pause, before Zoro’s next message landed. _‘Fucker >:( only got to sleep 2 hrs ago ‘_

Still grinning, the chef winged off another text. _‘Ur missing the best part of the day’_

_‘No I’m not cos some asshole just woke me up’_

_‘Just checking ur still alive.’_ Sanji took a pull on his cigarette. _‘Rooftop drunkfest w/Luffy = living dangerously.’_

_‘Ur just a lightweight twirly.’_

_‘ & ur a boozehound shitty moss.’_

_‘Im going back 2 sleep.’_

_‘Sleepiness is a character defect.’_

_‘See you Sunday eve.’_

_‘Ur no fun.’_

Zoro’s only reply was an eloquent middle-finger emoji.

Chuckling, Sanji set his phone aside and picked up his coffee: took another warm, reviving mouthful of caffeine. This coupled with the cigarette were doing their usual magic, chasing away the shadows of night that clung around his brain. That first just-woken-up fogginess was dispelling, and he was starting to feel like he could face the day.

His gaze drifted across the room until it came to rest on his desk. Where his laptop sat, along with box files and neatly-sorted stacks of paperwork. A slight frown dinted in Sanji’s brows.

_Speaking of facing things..._

He’d worked for five hours straight last night, tackling his long list of admin tasks. Had made a significant dent in them too, before his eyes got too tired to focus any longer and he’d been forced to call it a night. Emails had been answered, invoices paid, his website updated, details double-checked for his catering job today... He’d even managed to get his business books more or less up to date, entering all his income and outgoings on the spreadsheet he recorded his accounts in.

Which was what was putting the slight frown on his face now: remembering the figures that he’d totalled up. He’d felt a slightly queasy kick in his stomach when he’d first looked at them last night, checking his figures a second time to make sure he hadn’t entered something in the wrong column. And finally facing what the numbers were telling him.

 _Bite Me_ was barely going to make a profit this month. After he took out his bills for food supplies and other overheads, the money coming in was going to cover the rental and utilities for the unit, but only just. What would be left after that wasn’t so much a wage for himself, as pocket change.

Sanji knew his turnover was down the last couple of weeks, he could do the math: less customer sales meant less income. He was still paying off set-up costs, and basic expenses like unit rent and food supplies weren’t going to change; so that meant his profit margins were getting squeezed. He either had to figure out a cheaper way to source ingredients or some way to attract more customers... Or preferably both.

Some of last night he’d spent on marketing: updating his website, sending out quotes and menus for event catering enquiries, looking at a design for a new summer-themed flyer that Usopp had worked up for him... But it was hard to summon the energy for this on top of all the admin he had to do, after putting in a long hot day cooking in _Bite Me_.

Sanji remembered Usopp’s question from the day before.

_\- If things got really bad, money-wise... You’d holler for help, right?_

Though he’d jokingly promised that he would, Sanji knew otherwise.

_This is my shit to deal with._

He’d known all along that _Bite Me_ looked better in his business plan than it would in reality; at least for the first six months or so, while he was getting established. But in his imagination, he’d somehow glossed over this tricky time period. Mentally he’d skipped ahead a year, to when things had settled down: when business was healthy and generating a nice steady flow of income... Instead of the trickle it was making right now.

_It’ll be okay. I can get through this slow stretch, and things’ll pick up again late summer._

Zoro had said almost the same thing to him a couple of days earlier. And it wasn’t like Sanji had expected it all to be plain sailing. Zeff had warned him to expect set-backs, so this was all par for the course. He had contingency plans, like the extra catering work at weekends. As long as he still kept on top of admin and re-stocking supplies and menu planning, he could ride out these teething troubles.

_And on the subject of catering..._

Sanji looked over to his desk again, to where his plan lay for tackling all the prepping and cooking for that evening’s job. He’d written a comprehensive list of all the dishes he was putting together for the party, with a careful timeline for every stage of the preparation. Because he’d planned the menu the previous week he had all the necessary ingredients; so at least no shopping would be necessary today. But there was still a lot to do.

The clients wanted a truly memorable party with their retro seventies food theme, to celebrate the golden wedding anniversary of the grandparents in their family. A menu for forty people - that would be authentically seventies kitsch but still look and taste good - had taken Sanji a while to figure out, the seventies being a decade that had brought such culinary disasters as beef in aspic and cheese fondue.

It was a challenge, but it was the kind of challenge he liked. He’d pored over vintage recipe books and trawled the internet, trying to capture the essence of seventies cuisine... And then schemed ways to transform it into more appetising dishes, without losing the retro feel.

_Okay. Time to grab a quick breakfast and some more coffee; then get to work._

Nine busy hours later, almost everything was done. Several dozen individual tiny quiches and Hawaiian-style mini-pizzas were cooling on racks, their savoury aromas mixing with the other food smells in Sanji’s kitchen. Beside the quiches and pizzas were vol-au-vents; while in his large refrigerator a huge salmon mousse was chilling, pressed into a fish-shaped mould. It shared the space with a dozen other savoury dishes, ranging from devilled eggs and bacon-wrapped prawns to a cream cheese-and-chive log coated in chopped pistachio nuts. There was also a luscious Black Forest torte, and a mango-flavour Jello with pineapple chunks: Sanji hadn’t been able to resist including this seventies signature dish.

All he had left to finish making was the centrepiece of the party dining table, a large two-tiered carrot cake covered with icing tinted a delicate yellow and decorated with halved walnuts. He’d already piped a graceful _50 Years Congratulations Eve and Warren_ along with two intertwined golden hearts on the cake’s top: now he carefully pressed sugared yellow rose petals into the icing to adorn the motif with flowers. Finally he dusted the whole cake with scattered tiny flakes of edible gold, before stepping back and viewing the finished result critically.

_A feast for the eyes, as well as for the tongue._

Sanji allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.

The time the baked foods needed to cool was enough for the chef to do kitchen clear-up, and then set out all the catering packaging and food containers he would need to pack the different dishes into. It took him almost another hour to package everything up; and when the cab he’d booked to transport him to the party venue arrived, he made several trips down the stairs to carry all the containers and packages out to the waiting car.

“Jeez. You got any more to come?” enquired the cabbie, eyeing the mound of cartons and boxes that filled his vehicle’s - thankfully roomy - interior.

“That’s the last of it.” Sanji eased into the space he’d left himself to sit on the front passenger seat and fastened his seat belt, holding the two huge cake boxes containing the carrot cake carefully in his lap where he could protect them on the journey. “We’re good to go.”

“Ok, fella.” The cab driver started his engine and pulled away. Sanji checked the time on his phone, and breathed a small sigh of relief: quarter to six. He was more or less on schedule. Half an hour tops to get to the venue; half an hour to unpack the food and arrange it on the table; all within the time frame he’d promised, of party guests being able to access the food from seven o’clock onwards.

The universe didn’t throw any obstacles in his way, and Sanji reached the party’s function room in a small upmarket hotel in good time. Most of the guests had yet to arrive and those that were there had gravitated to the bar and dance floor in the adjoining room, so Sanji was able to set out his wares undisturbed on a massive table covered in a white linen tablecloth.

He was just turning the large platter with the smoked salmon mousse this way and that, trying to judge which position looked most impressive and decorating it with slices of lemon and sprigs of dill, when a clack-clack of high heels on the room’s polished wooden floor was followed by a woman’s melodious voice.

“Oh wow... This is totally _amazing_.”

Sanji turned around. A young brunette in a shimmering bronze cocktail dress stood a few feet away, her hazel eyes wide with admiration and pleasure as she viewed the laden table. Her gaze took in the array of dishes, then travelled to the chef. “Are you Sanji?” She smiled, and held out a hand. “I’m Ellen.”

Recognising the name from the emails and texts he’d received, Sanji shook her hand and smiled in return. “Yes, it’s me. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“After my gazillion messages over the past three weeks, asking endless food-related questions?” Ellen let out a comfortably self-mocking laugh. “You must have been cursing my name on a daily basis.”

“On the contrary: it’s good when customers know what they want.” Sanji smiled again. “It’s much easier to work with.”

“Well, you’ve certainly worked wonders...” Ellen turned to regard the spread again. “Grandma and gramps will _love_ this. Thank you so much for all your hard work, Sanji.”

Sanji gave a nod of acknowledgement. “It’s my absolute pleasure. And please give my congratulations to your grandparents: I wish them many more decades of happiness together.”

“Oh, come and give them your congratulations yourself!” Ellen gestured towards the other room. “They’d love that. When they see all of this beautiful food, they’re going to want to meet the guy who put it all together.”

Sanji had planned to make a discreet exit after checking in with the party hosts that the food was satisfactory... He certainly hadn’t expected an invite. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your family party.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding at all.” Ellen gave him a warm smile. “It’s fine – stay and meet them, at least long enough for a celebratory drink.”

Which was how the chef found himself standing with a glass of good vintage champagne, shaking hands with the elderly couple and making polite conversation about how a nice young man like him got into the catering line of work. They were sweet and interested, and it was only the arrival of more family members that ended their conversation and left Sanji free to drift off to one side and view the room.

All ages of guests were now helping themselves from the table of food, and taking photos of the centrepiece cake with their phones. Silver-haired members of the grandparents’ peer group mingled with middle-aged offspring and grandkids in their twenties and thirties, along with the next generation down: teenagers exploring the delights of a free bar and kids running about in party excitement mode. There were a lot of expensive-looking suits and stylish dresses amongst the adults, and designer jeans amongst the younger set.

Sanji sipped his champagne and remembered the game he and the other chefs and waiters had secretly played at _L'Escargot Blanc_. They’d called it _Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner,_ and it basically involved inventing fictional backstories for the wealthy clientele who frequented the restaurant, with the most creative and highly improbable backstory being the winner. _That guy there? He used to sell armaments to Congolese militia, then had a near-death experience and now he’s studying to be a Buddhist priest._ _The woman he’s sitting opposite? She makes her fortune from bespoke high-end taxidermy, stuffing celebrities’ pets._

“Everyone loves what you’ve done with the food.” Ellen appeared beside him, holding her own glass of champagne. “I’ve already had several people ask me who we used for catering... I took the liberty of giving them your contact details, I hope that was okay.”

“Absolutely – thank you.” Sanji reached inside his jacket and drew out his case of business cards, and extracted half a dozen. “Maybe you could give them these?”

She took them with a smile. “Of course! I should’ve asked you to leave some on the table.”

“That would feel kind of pushy,” Sanji answered. “You know – this is your family’s special day, it’d feel intrusive for me to use it for self-promotion.”

Ellen regarded him over her champagne glass, her big hazel eyes amused. “How long have you been in business, Sanji – if you don’t mind me asking?”

The chef felt the beginnings of a blush, and silently cursed his traitorous circulatory system. “I started up _Bite Me_ in April this year. But I’ve been a professional chef for six years.” 

She nodded. “As someone who works in the big bad world of copy writing, let me give you a tip: when you’re in the start-up phase, seize every promotional opportunity you can.” She winked. “Especially when you’re providing a product that’s as excellent as yours.”

The blush was a lost cause now: Sanji tried to edit it from his consciousness and concentrate instead on the compliment. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate your feedback.”

“I’d be more than willing to leave a positive testimonial on your website, if you send me the link for that.”

“I’ll email it to you tomorrow.” Sanji silently thanked heaven that Nami had made him include a reviews and testimonials webpage.

“Great. And thank you, Sanji: you’ve really helped to make this evening a special one. Grandma and gramps are the heart of this family, we’ve been scheming this party for them for months... It means a lot to all of us that it went off smoothly, and your food has been one of the stars of the show.”

Sanji gestured towards the elderly couple. “It’s a pleasure and a privilege to celebrate this special day with them. Fifty years of sharing love together is quite an achievement.”

“It really is.” Ellen’s expression was affectionate as she gazed at her grandparents... Then her brows pulled together. “It really is.” As she repeated her words, she seemed momentarily to fall into a less-happy place. It only lasted an instant, but Sanji saw with disquiet a brightness come into her eyes that looked like sudden unshed tears. Ellen looked down at her champagne; took a sip; sniffed and blinked; then brought a smile back onto her face and looked back up. “Don’t mind me. Just having a moment.”

Feeling a pang for her evident sadness, Sanji gave her a gentle smile in return. “Anything I can do?”

“Do you by any chance lead a secret double-life where you cook by day, and by night you right wrongs?” Ellen gave a half-laugh, although her eyes were still bright. “...I’m okay. Seeing grandma and gramps celebrating fifty years together gives me faith that it’s possible for love to work out.” She suddenly wiped swiftly under eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh shit. I wasn’t going to do this. Is my mascara smudged?”

Sanji checked. “You look lovely.”

“You’re sweet.” She managed to smile again, with an effort. “Sorry. I bet having some strange woman crying in front of you isn’t part of the catering deal.”

The chef pretended to consider. “Well, I guess I could develop it as a side line of the business. Maybe I could call it _Comfort Food_ _.”_

Ellen laughed this time, and when she stopped she took a gulp of champagne. After a deep breath, she nodded at him. “Thank you. I appreciate you not running away from the crazy female.”

“Whoever walked away from you must have been a total moron,” Sanji responded.

She looked at him with gratitude. “What a nice compliment. Is it that obvious?”

“I guessed from what you said. Bad break up?”

“The absolute shittiest.” She pronounced this vigorously, then glanced at him. “Sorry. Potty mouth.”

“I think a bad break-up cuts you some slack in the area of vocabulary.”

“Good.” She made a wry face. “In that case: he was a total son-of-a-bitch who I’d been together with for three years, when he announced to me – one week before Valentine’s this year - that he was sleeping with another woman.”

“ _Ouch_.”

“I’ve been kind of allergic to the whole love thing since. But here’s hoping this will work its magic.” She gestured at the room before them: the party, the food, the gathered family. The loving couple at the heart of it all. “I want to believe in romance and happy-ever-after. I’m just a little gun-shy.”

“I’d say you were entitled. But I don’t think you’ll be waiting very long for true love. I’m pretty sure guys will be beating a path to your door... And they won’t all be crapheads like that one.”

Ellen gave him a real smile this time. “Here’s hoping.”

A beat of quiet fell between them; they both looked out at the party for a while.

When Sanji finished his champagne he set the empty glass on a nearby table, before giving Ellen a nod and smile. “Thank you so much for inviting me to stay. It was great to meet your grandparents: I hope they enjoy the rest of their party.”

“You’re welcome, Sanji – and thank _you_ , for all that gorgeous food. We couldn’t have asked for a better spread.” Ellen seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said lightly, “It’s been nice talking with you, too. If I was to message you... would you maybe like to meet up, for a drink sometime?”

Sanji tensed inwardly, but kept the smile on his face. “Much as I hate to say no: I’m already seeing someone.”

“Oh well. Worth a shot.” Ellen looked rueful, but quickly recovered her poise. “Good-looking, good listener, _and_ an amazing cook. Hope your girlfriend knows how lucky she is!”

Sanji almost contradicted her: _Actually,_ _I have a boyfriend._ While he was thinking of how to say this tactfully, Ellen extended her hand. “Thanks again, Sanji. And good luck with your business.”

They shook hands, then the chef made his goodbyes and departed.

It was only nine o’clock by the time Sanji got home, but as he closed the door of his apartment a shroud of fatigue fell over him. He walked through to the kitchen and stared blankly at the wiped-clean surfaces and the stacked washing-up; the couple of empty food packaging containers that he hadn’t needed. Wondered vaguely for a half-minute or so about slinging together an omelette or something equally quick, then abandoned the notion. Cooking all day had wiped his appetite, as it not unusually did.

In the refrigerator there were some leftover cherries from making the Black Forest torte, and a slightly squashed mini-quiche that had broken as he’d lifted it out of the baking tray. He stuck them on a plate, poured himself a glass of wine as an accompaniment, and consumed this random snack supper lying almost full length on the couch. Turning over how things had gone that evening.

_...Pretty good._

Every dish had gone according to plan (although the salmon mousse had been a nightmare to get out of its fish-shaped mould intact), and seemed to have been enjoyed by the party guests. It looked like he might get more catering work on the back of it: plus he’d had the bonus of being thanked in person and asked to stay for a drink, which was a nice touch.

The memory of Ellen asking him for a date surfaced, and Sanji felt again that frisson of discomfort. There was no good way to say no to that kind of request: and he hated doing anything that might cause a woman distress. But hopefully he’d handled it okay. Ellen hadn’t seemed upset, or angry.

_\- Hope your girlfriend knows how lucky she is!_

The chef grimaced slightly. He was used to straight people assuming he was straight; hell, he was even used to LGBTQ people assuming he was gay rather than bi. But being used to it didn’t take away from feeling that uncomfortable jolt, every time it happened. That sense that he’d suddenly become invisible.

He wondered about sharing the story with Zoro. Maybe make it funny, so the swordsman would laugh with him, take away some of sting. Defuse the tiresomely familiar discomfort, by sharing between them what it felt like to be queer in a heteronormative world.

He lifted his wine glass from where it rested on his chest, and drained the last mouthful. Then yawned.

_Crap, I can’t keep my eyes open._

He had just enough energy left to clamber upright and dump his glass and plate in the kitchen, before heading to his bed and dropping into fathoms-deep sleep.

* * * * * * * * *

On Sunday morning Sanji woke late, drifting up peaceably without the shrill of the alarm to yank him into consciousness. He lay in bed for a while, luxuriating in the feeling of knowing he had the whole day to do what he wanted... And nowhere he had to be.

Once he’d surfaced and showered, he treated himself to a leisurely breakfast while perusing an Ottolenghi cookbook he’d borrowed from the library. The recipes in there were far too complex for _Bite Me_ , but the flavour combinations were interesting: Sanji made a mental note to experiment with them using simpler ingredients.

Thinking of ingredients reminded him of the poster he’d seen on Friday on his way home from work.

_That European food market: I was gonna go check that out._

The thought harmonised nicely with his already good mood. Okay, _Bite Me_ was still a work in progress and his finances weren’t in the best of shape; but yesterday had gone great, today was a day off, and it wasn’t like he had to actually spend a lot of money at the market – even just wandering round taking in the sights and smells would be a treat.

It didn’t take long to finish his breakfast, change into a short-sleeved shirt and white denim shorts, and head out the door. Union Square was about a half-hour walk away, most of which Sanji spent smoking a cigarette and gazing at passers-by cheerfully enjoying their summer weekend.

The square when he got there was full to capacity with stalls under a patchwork of brightly-coloured awnings, and there was a throng of people wandering about: the market event organisers had obviously done a good job on their publicity.

Initially Sanji just drifted along the rows of stalls, taking in the variety of produce on offer. French cheeses and a wood-fired Italian pizza oven; Greek olives and Turkish pastries; German sausages and Spanish tapas... Every few yards brought a new spread of mouth-watering delights laid out to view. Aromas that were spicy, sweet, mellow or savoury wafted to Sanji’s nose: both familiar scents and completely new ones.

Many stallholders had set out platters of small free samples from their wares for passers-by to try, and soon Sanji was happily nibbling at all the variety on offer. Merguez sausages with a harissa-spiced kick, fresh off a stallholder’s grill. The nutty saltiness of fried kefalograviera cheese, paired with the unctuousness of smoked aubergine baba ganouj. A spoonful of blossom-pink Italian ice cream flavoured with maraschino cherries. Inhaling the dark rich scent of cocoa enveloping a stall of Belgian hand-made chocolates. Tasting a dozen different cooking sundries: raspberry and tarragon vinegar, fresh basil pesto, olive oil infused with truffles.

It all looked, smelled and tasted so good. A treat for anyone’s senses... but for a chef, even more so. Sanji spent a while trying every freebie he could; strictly rationing himself to buy only a couple of high-end ingredients, for the produce on offer wasn’t cheap.

The morning drifted by imperceptibly into afternoon. A stallholder from Normandy selling delicious cider and perry offered Sanji a potent sample of calvados, generating a nice internal glow that matched the sunny day around him. After bantering in French with the cheerful _marchande_ for a few minutes, Sanji wandered onwards to gaze at the wares displayed on the neighbouring stall.

Although most of the market consisted of food and drink stalls, there were also a few craftspeople. Beside the Normandy cider merchant was a Portuguese jeweller, who had covered her table in black velvet as a backdrop to her wares: gold and silver rings, bracelets and necklaces which gleamed like a small Aladdin’s hoard. As Sanji ran his gaze over them he saw many were finely-wrought filigree work, intricate lattices of gold or silver in the shape of hearts, flowers and leaves.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” The dark-eyed jeweller addressed Sanji, smiling at him. “A gift for a lady, perhaps?”

The chef was about to smile in return and shake his head, before something struck him. _I was racking my brains what to buy Nami for her birthday... Something from here would be perfect._

Glancing along the laid-out jewellery, he nodded in answer. “As it happens, I’d like to buy my friend a gift for her birthday. And as a big thank-you too, for all the amazing support she’s given me.”

The jeweller, who was wearing a traditional scarlet headscarf and bodice over an embroidered white blouse, let her smile grow. “Then you are looking for a special present... For a special friend?”

The chef laughed. “Yeah. I guess so.” He looked down at the woman’s wares. “Is it okay to pick them up, take a closer look?”

She gestured invitingly at her stall. _“_ _Está bem_ _.”_

Sanji carefully picked up pieces, one at a time: marvelling at the delicate traceries of gold or silver, like lace fashioned out of precious metal. Many of the items were traditional designs, like the ornate hearts and circlets worn by the jeweller herself; others had a more modern look.

At last one necklace in gold caught Sanji’s eye: he gently picked it up off the velvet. The chain looped down to a finely-worked filigree crescent moon, inset with a polished deep-blue gemstone. Hanging from the crescent moon were a row of nine smaller crystals that looked to be of the same blue gemstone, but left unpolished. The blue of the stones was that of ocean deeps, shot through with silvery lights.

“That’s one of my favourites.” The jeweller spoke up. “Boho-style gypsy necklace... Very fashionable right now.”

“It’s beautiful.” Sanji responded simply, meaning it. “Are they sapphires?” Thinking: _If so, I’m shit out of luck – it’ll cost a fortune._

“No, these are kyanite gemstones.” The jeweller touched the necklace gently with the tip of her finger. “Gorgeous, aren’t they?”

Mentally crossing his fingers, Sanji asked, “How much?”

“A hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

_Whoa._

Sanji looked down at the necklace hanging from his fingers, trying not to flinch. “Ah.”

“It’s 14-karat gold, which brings down the price... And of course, makes the piece stronger than something worked in 22-karat. The kyanite is Brazilian, one of the best sources for high-quality gemstones.” The jeweller obviously sensed his hesitancy and tried to sweeten things. “For a handmade piece like this, you’d normally pay a lot more – maybe two hundred and fifty dollars. You’ll be getting a truly unique piece for a bargain price.”

Gazing at the necklace, Sanji found himself chewing on the inside of his lip.

_That’s way more than I was planning to spend... But I really want to buy Nami something special, not just for her birthday but to thank her for all she’s done for me the past few months. And this is perfect._

The chef pictured the delicate gold and rich blue against Nami’s pale skin and flame hair.

_Yeah. She deserves it._

He lifted his gaze to the dark eyes of the jeweller, and gave her a small smile. “Do you take credit cards?”

Five minutes later Sanji was wandering on through the market, the elegantly gift-wrapped necklace carried reverently in one hand. Spending such a big sum had left him slightly light-headed, and for a few minutes he was so absorbed in subduing his inner critic – _You’re meant to be economising on your finances right now, fuckwit ­_ – that he scarcely noticed his surroundings.

At last he walked into a smell so seductive it roused him from his nagging thoughts. Sugar, yeast, vanilla, roasted nuts, honey, chocolate... A sweet warmth penetrated his nostrils like a powerful mood-enhancing drug, melting away troubling thoughts and replacing them with simple pleasure. Sanji came to a halt and looked round: his progress had taken him to a corner he hadn’t yet explored, and right in front of him was a stall whose table was almost obscured by trays of bakery confections. Cakes, tarts, biscuits and other sweet treats filled the stall, beneath a cheerful banner that proclaimed: _Patisserie des Abeilles._

_Pastries of the Bees._

Sanji looked at the sign with its little hand-painted yellow and black honey bees buzzing around the letters, then at the spread of baked desserts beneath. And smiled.

Behind the rows of mouth-watering patisserie, a jovial-looking man wearing a pork pie hat and round-framed glasses met his gaze and beamed back. _“_ _Salut, monsieur_ _._ Can I tempt you to try something?”

 _“_ _Tout a l’air délicieu_ _x_ _,”_ Sanji replied, still regarding the wonderful array of baked goods.

 _“Ah,_ _vous parlez français!”_ The man seemed delighted by this. _“Vous êtes Français, aussi? Ou Franco-Canadien?”_

 _“Je suis Américain,_ _j'habite ici depuis plusieurs années... Mais_ _j’habitais en France, quand j'étais enfant._ _”_

The _patissier_ nodded slowly, before switching back into strongly-accented English. “You still speak French very well.”

Sanji shrugged. “Well, I don’t get much opportunity to practice... But yeah, I enjoy speaking the language.”

“ _Bien sûr!_ It is the language of great poetry – and great lovers.” The man winked.

This time Sanji laughed. “And great chefs?”

“ _Ah oui, c’est vrai_.” The man swept his outstretched his hand stylishly across at his stall. “As you see. You are interested in French cooking?”

“I’m a professional chef. I run my own food concession stand.” Sanji gestured roughly in the direction that _Bite Me_ lay in. “Fusion street foods.”

The _patissier_ nodded slowly, pursing his lips and looking impressed. “Interesting. Business is good?”

“ _Comme ci comme ça_.” Sanji tilted his palm one way, than the other. “I’ve only been running a couple of months... But yeah, hopefully I’ll make a go of it.”

“ _Bonne chance_.” The man pronounced this goodwill wish with an emphatic nod. “These are not easy times for making new businesses... Though people will always have an appetite for good food, I think.”

Nodding, the chef gave the _patissier_ a smile. “Hope you’re right.”

“But for now, what did you have an appetite for?” The man lifted his eyebrows comically. “Everything here is freshly baked, _specialities régionales,_ made to traditional recipes. The authentic taste of southern France. Is there something particular you like?”

“Well, I always wanted to try a really good recipe for _jésuites_...” Sanji let his gaze travel over the trays of sweet pastries with their hand-lettered signs: _Pastis Landais,_ _Canelés_ , _Navettes de Marseilles, Babas au Rhum_ , _Chocolatines_ , _Rousquilles_. Then found his voice trailing off as his eyes fell on a tray at the far end of the stall, its sign bearing the words _Bouchons de Languedoc_. Alongside all the other baked creations, the _patisserie_ in this tray looked somewhat rustic: just simple chunky cookie-shaped biscuits, golden-brown and thickly-studded with pine nuts.

_No way._

Sanji simply stared, as if he’d found the Holy Grail.

The man behind the stall leaned slightly into his field of view. “You see something you like?”

Blinking, and swallowing to release a throat gone suddenly tight, Sanji pointed at the end of the stall. “...Yeah. The _bouchons de Languedoc_ _..._ Can I... Would it be okay to try one?”

In answer, the patissier reached out to the tray and picked up one of the biscuits, before offering it to Sanji with a smile.

Taking it between finger and thumb, Sanji brought the biscuit up and inhaled its scent: toasted pine nuts and sweetness. He bit into it and his mouth filled with a flood of flavours: vanilla and honey, rich pine nuts and roasted almonds, the biscuit giving up that ideal texture of initial crunch into slight chewiness.

It was the taste of perfect love.

“Good, ah?” The patissier viewed Sanji’s blissed-out expression with pleasure. “It’s the honey of the Languedoc that gives the _bouchons_ their unique flavour. You can taste all the wild herbs of the _garigue_ in there: rosemary, thyme, oregano... And the nuts give it a wonderful texture, no?”

Struggling to pull himself back from where the taste in his mouth had sent him, Sanji managed a nod in response. With an effort, he also summoned his voice. “That’s...amazing. Can I have a dozen?”

The man’s eyebrows raised comically above his round glasses again: but his smile was one of enjoyment, rather than amusement at Sanji’s expense. “ _Ah oui, bien sûr_ _.”_

“And could I possibly have the recipe, too?”

The _patissier_ chuckled. “You want to try your hand at making them?” He winked at the chef. “I think I can remember it for you, if you want to write down.”

A few minutes later Sanji was walking away from the market, slightly in a daze. In one hand he still carried the necklace he’d bought for Nami; in the other, a neat cardboard carton with a dozen of the _bouchons de Languedoc_ _._

He scarcely noticed anything on the walk back home. On reaching his apartment the chef carefully placed Nami’s necklace on his desk, then headed for the kitchen and brewed a cafetière of strong Brazilian dark-roast coffee. Lifting the lid of the carton with _Patisserie des Abeilles_ printed in scrolled writing, he took out two of the sweet biscuits and arranged them on a saucer. He fetched milk from the fridge and heated it on the stove until it was not quite boiling: whisked it, before pouring the milk and the coffee simultaneously into a large white porcelain _café au lait_ bowl.

Taking coffee and biscuits back through to the living room, Sanji placed them on the low table by the couch and sat down. Let out a slow breath. Then picked up the bowl and took a good warm mouthful: savouring the kick of the strong coffee, the rich creaminess of the steamed milk, perfectly proportioned to each other. Finally he reached out and picked up one of the _bouchons de Languedoc_ _,_ and bit into it.

Honey and pine nuts and almonds in a golden rush in his mouth. That crisp then meltingly chewy texture, that showed how skilled the _patissier_ was to have got it just right.

And over all these, a flood of wellbeing that filled him from his head to his toes. His whole body reacting to that texture, that taste, which cancelled the decades in an instant and made him six years old and purely, simply happy.

_\- Look what I’ve got, my little chick. A little treat for us, from Patisserie Combot._

Sanji shut his eyes. And saw in his mind’s eye sunlight falling across a tiled kitchen floor; a scarred red formica-topped table; two wooden chairs drawn up to it.

_\- Can we eat them for breakfast?_

Sweet nuttiness filling his mouth. Fragrant honey savour on his tongue.

_\- Of course. That’s exactly what we’ll do._

On that red-topped table, two bowls of _café au lait:_ his almost all milk, just a hint of coffee turning it warm cream colour. Hers darker brown, stronger, that rich grown-up smell that blended with the smoke from her cigarette and the honey-sweet _bouchons_ , the scents of safety and happiness. Her slender red-nail-tipped fingers picking up a biscuit, lifting it to her mouth to take a bite. A slow smile coming onto her face.

_\- Ahh... Delicious. I can taste the bees._

_\- The bees?_

_\- Yes, mon chéri_ _._ _All those little bees who’ve worked so hard to gather honey, flying over the hills to visit a million flowers. Can’t you taste them?_

_\- What do bees taste of?_

Pressing a forefinger thoughtfully to her lips, before smiling mischievously at him.

_\- Sunshine; and herbs, and pine trees... and little smelly bee feet._

_\- Smelly bee feet, urghh!_

_\- It’s not so bad. They’ve walked on lots of flowers, so their feet smell much better than yours do._

Her wink making him giggle so hard the crumbs of the bouchon catch in his throat and he chokes, coughing hard. Her chair scraping on the tiled floor as she stands and pats her hand against his back.

 _\- Careful now. Take a little sip, wash it down._

Sanji opened his eyes again. There was still sunlight, but it was falling on his carpeted living room floor. He swallowed and his mouth was empty, but the taste remained.

He gazed at the half of the _bouchon_ still in his hand: swallowed again, his throat suddenly uncomfortably tight. Feeling like he’d stepped back effortlessly through time, to a place where he was vividly present. Where he could almost feel the edge of the wooden chair under him as he swung his legs back and forth; smell the warm coffee and sweet biscuits and her soft, musky perfume.

As a chef, Sanji knew all about sensory memory. The way a particular smell, a specific taste, could trigger memories instantly and vividly. That was why people adored comfort foods from their childhood, even if the foods themselves were bland junk: way back when, those connections got hardwired into their developing brains. The same parts of the brain that registered smells, were also linked to memory and emotions. Proust had written about it, with his famous tea-soaked _petite madeleine:_ that powerful trigger of remembrance of things past.

 _À la Recherche du Temps Perdu._ In search of lost time.

Sanji hadn’t gone out searching for anything that morning, other than a relaxing few hours exploring the European market. But what he’d lost had found him, nonetheless.

His coffee was cooling on the table. He picked it up and took a mouthful, trying to ground himself. But the rich _café au lait_ was also a taste of things past, freighted with memories. Memories that he wanted to hold onto, even though they ended in loss.

His mouth craved the taste of the _bouchon_ again. He bit into it and the comfort was there, the happiness; the sweet familiar notes of his early childhood. The memories that were all he had left of the few short years he and his mother had shared together.

An old sharp ache pressed in behind the good feeling. He let it be there: the price he had to pay, for holding onto the good memories. Let himself feel it, all of it. Like testing the blade of a knife with his bare thumb, pressing carefully against the cutting edge.

_\- Can I have another, maman?_

_\- Of course, my little chick. Eat up!_

Lost time found. Remembrance of things past; but as vivid and real now as the taste of nuts and honey in his mouth. Sweetness and sunshine; love and loneliness. The ingredients that made him, all those years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes  
> Portuguese: Está bem = That's fine
> 
> French: Patisserie / patissier = bakery where cakes and biscuits and fancy pastries are sold / someone who makes fancy baked goods  
> Tout a l’air délicieux = It all looks delicious  
> Vous parlez français! Vous êtes Français, aussi? Ou Franco-Canadienne? = You speak French! Are you also French? Or French Canadian?  
> Je suis Américain, j'habite ici depuis plusieurs années... Mais j’habitais en France, quand j'étais enfant. = I'm American, I've lived here for many years... But I lived in France when I was a kid.  
> Bien sûr! = Of course!  
> C’est vrai = That's right / True dat  
> Comme ci comme ça = So-so  
> Bonne chance = Good luck
> 
> General notes:  
> I make absolutely no apologies for making this chapter all about food, because it's all about Sanji: and creating gorgeous food for others is his raison d'être. Food is such a complicated and emotionally-freighted thing for so many of us (me included)... I don't have a particularly sweet tooth and I'm not a massive fan of French cooking, but their patisserie redefines the word 'nom'. When my big sis still lived in France she bought me a whole box of treats from a local patisserie for my birthday: we devoured them together and reached a state of ecstatic bliss. If this chapter makes you hungry, go eat something yummy and enjoy it. You deserve it. ;-)
> 
> ...And also, because I can't say it enough: THANK YOU for all your positive feedback and comments and kudos. I'll try to post the next chapter ASAP, after I finish editing it. You are all lovely. <3


	4. Beyond The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There now.” Sora smoothed a sheet over him: it was far too hot in mid-August for a duvet. “Sleep tight, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She looked him in the eye, with a reassuring smile. “Okay, little chick?”
> 
> Sanji knew what he had to say. “Okay.”
> 
> “Good boy. I love you to the moon and back again.” She bent down and kissed him on the cheek, giving him a hug; then stepped back. “Sweet dreams, mon chéri.”
> 
> Sanji nodded, and shut his eyes as if he was getting busy on that. He heard her footsteps click across the floor to the hallway; the apartment door open, then softly close; then he was alone.

* * *

_Somewhere beyond the sea  
She's there watching for me  
If I could fly like birds on high  
Then straight to her arms, I'd go sailing_

_\- Bobby Darin_

* * *

_[Nineteen years before. Southwestern France.]_

The red clay-tiled roof of the apartment below their balcony glowed in the late evening sunshine. Beyond it was the concierge’s dusty garden with its cracked white wall; salt-spray-browned palm trees lining the beachfront road; and beyond that, the Mediterranean sea twinkling blue and curling onto the long sandy shore that still had a few holidaymakers lingering late on the beach.

Sanji sat with both arms folded on the wooden windowsill and his chin resting on his arms, gazing downwards at the tiled roof. He had been watching for quite a while and his body was starting to feel fidgety, but it was important to stay still and keep watching.

_There!_

A sudden twitch of movement in a dark gap between two roof tiles, then a tiny scaly creature with a blunt-pointed head and long tail scuttled out a couple of feet, before coming to a stop.

“Hello, César.” Sanji spoke quietly, with satisfaction.

The little lizard appeared to listen, cocking its tiny head sideways and looking upwards with a beady eye; before continuing onwards, foraging across the undulating landscape of the tiled roof.

“There should be plenty of ants for you to find,” Sanji assured. “I dropped lots of crumbs down on the roof at suppertime.”

The lizard checked its progress, appearing to zone in its vision on something: then darted forwards, before snapping up some tiny prey.

“And _maman_ says please can you eat all the mosquitoes, because they’re a total pain right now.” Sanji reached down and gave his ankle a good scratch after saying this: he had got three itchy new bites last night.

“Sanji! Come and brush your teeth.”

“Just a bit longer, _maman_!”

“No, not just-a-bit: now, please.”

“Five more minutes..?”

Footsteps in high heels click-clacked across their apartment’s tiled floor: his mother was dressed for work. A moment later Sanji heard the creak of the sliding door opening behind him, where he sat on what they-called their ‘sun terrace’ but what was really just half a balcony, only just big enough for two chairs. “It’s bedtime, little chick.”

“Two more minutes...”

Sora’s hand ruffled his hair. “Half a minute. And not one second longer.”

Sanji grinned, doing his best to hide it. His mother sat down in the chair next to him and copied his position, resting her chin on her folded arms. “Have you seen César yet?”

Sanji had named the lizard after one of his favourite storybooks, _César Le Lézard:_ and his mother had gone along with it, like she always did with his ideas. Carefully extending one finger, Sanji pointed at the lizard. “There he is.”

Raising her voice just a little, Sora called, “Good evening, César! I hope you brought a good appetite for mosquitoes with you, tonight. They’re driving me and Sanji ab-so-lute-ly crazy.”

Sanji giggled. “I told him already.”

“Good. Those wicked mosquitoes... I’m running out of polite places to scratch.” She winked sideways at him, making him giggle again.

Below them on the roof, the little striped lizard scuttered onwards, plucking insects off the tiles. Sanji’s mother let out a slight sigh, and rested her head sideways a little. Strands of her hair fell against Sanji’s arm: they were the exact same colour as his own. Bright gold, turning even lighter in the summer under the sun’s rays. Her eyes were the exact same colour of his too, deep sea-blue. Those ways in which they looked the same gave Sanji a good feeling. Knowing they were linked to each other, like no-one else.

“There he goes.” Sora extended her forefinger, smiling down at the roof. “César hunting for his supper... Lucky him, eating bugs for his dinner. He doesn’t have to go out to work.”

Sanji felt the usual little plummet in his stomach when she said out. He didn’t answer, and after a few seconds her arm slid around his shoulders and gave him a small hug. “Time for bed, _mon chéri_ _.”_

She smelled as she always did before going to work: the dusty sweetness of make-up and the flowery spice of the scent she always wore. Sanji knew he’d run out of time, but asked anyway. “Just a bit longer.”

“No, no: brush your teeth, and bed.” She stood up and with a sudden movement bent down and tickled his ribs. “Or you’ll get tickled till you fly into a million pieces!”

Sanji wriggled and slid away, giggling and ducking out of her arms towards the open doorway. Into the apartment where he was chased and tickled some more and scooped into the bathroom, into his pyjamas, then into the fold-out sofabed in their main room. It was the only proper room in the apartment apart from maman’s bedroom, and even then it was half kitchen... But Sanji didn’t mind. He liked lying curled up on the saggy sofa bed, listening to the gentle whir of the refrigerator motor, breathing in the smells of whatever his mother had cooked for their supper. Falling asleep with the comforting scents of food.

“There now.” Sora smoothed a sheet over him: it was far too hot in mid-August for a duvet. “Sleep tight, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She looked him in the eye, with a reassuring smile. “Okay, little chick?”

Sanji knew what he had to say. “Okay.”

“Good boy. I love you to the moon and back again.” She bent down and kissed him on the cheek, giving him a hug; then stepped back. “Sweet dreams, _mon chéri_.”

Sanji nodded, and shut his eyes as if he was getting busy on that. He heard her footsteps click across the floor to the hallway; the apartment door open, then softly close; then he was alone.

When he opened his eyes, the room was dark. The fading evening light was just visible through the curtain that hung across the doorway that led to their balcony. The curtain moved, just a little: Sora had left the door slightly open, to let in what night breeze there was. Sanji watched the curtain sway, a gentle rhythmic movement like waves of the sea.

He wasn’t scared to be left on his own. He was nearly six and a half years old, not a baby any more. He knew his _maman_ would be back in the early hours of the morning, five or six o’clock maybe: he wouldn’t know for sure, because she always came back into their apartment so quietly he didn’t wake up. She would shower and then they’d have breakfast together, and after that she’d take a nap in her bedroom for a few hours while Sanji played in the living room or read his storybooks or watched television. And by the middle of the day Sora would’ve slept enough and they would make a picnic lunch to eat on the beach, or up in the forested hills inland. The air there smelled of pine trees, and they played the Grasshopper Game: walking up behind the insects where they basked on the ground, and calling out guesses of _Red!_ or _Blue!_ – before the grasshopper took flight in a whirr of legs and wings that flashed blue or red as they unfolded.

This was the pattern of how things usually went in the summer. Sanji was used to it and it was okay really; his mother was always around in the daytime, and at night he was asleep so it wasn’t like he knew she wasn’t there.

Once, when he’d been really little, he’d woken up in the middle of the night after having a bad dream and had gone into his mother’s bedroom looking for her. Only of course she’d been out at work: so Sanji had cried and cried, and someone had banged hard on the wall from the next apartment and shouted rude words; so he’d stopped crying after that and been as quiet as a mouse. The next day the concierge had come and spoken to his mother in a stiff, angry voice; and a few weeks after that Sanji and Sora had had to move in a hurry to a new apartment.

Sanji had wondered if it had been his fault, that they’d had to move. But when he asked his mother, she’d shaken her head. “It’s that grumpy old concierge, little chick. She was always complaining about something. It was just time for us to move on.”

“Was she angry ‘cause I woke people up?”

“Bof, she’s just an old sourpuss. Who cares what she thinks.”

“Somebody shouted and banged on the wall.” Sanji couldn’t help feeling responsible: and a little bit anxious that it might happen again.

His mother had looked closely at him then, with an expression that Sanji couldn’t quite decipher. Worry, but something more than that. “Did they bang on the door too?”

“No, just – just the wall.”

Sora nodded, her face still that mixture of worry-frown that made Sanji’s stomach clench up. “ _Chéri_ , I need you to promise me something very important.” Sanji nodded, eager to smooth over what had happened and make his mother’s frown go away. “If anyone ever knocks on the door of the apartment when I’m not here: you mustn’t answer or open the door. Can you promise that for me?”

“Yes, _maman_.” Sanji thought that he could manage to remember that. “Even if they keep on knocking?”

“They’ll stop knocking if they don’t get an answer. But it’s really, _really_ important that you remember this, _chéri:_ when I’m not here, you must never open the door or go out. You have to stay inside, and wait till I get home. Do you understand?”

“Yes...” But Sanji didn’t, entirely. And maybe that showed on his face, because his mother gave him a quizzical look.

“What is it, little chick?”

“What if... there’s a fire, and firemen come?”

Sora let out a long breath, and tried to smile. “Then the firemen will break open the door and make sure you’re safe. But there won’t be a fire, don’t worry.”

Sanji considered this. “Will I get into trouble if they have to break the door to get inside and rescue me?”

“No.” Sora reached out and stroked his hair, smoothing his fringe out of his eyes. “You won’t get into trouble. Firemen have to do things like that all the time.”

“Maman?”

“Yes, _chéri_?”

“Why can’t I open the door if you’re not here?”

Giving him a small smile, his mother looked at him. Her eyes seemed to search Sanji’s face, as if checking for something. After a moment, she spoke in a careful voice. “You know that it’s my job to look after you, right? To keep you safe; and to make sure that you eat healthy meals and go to school; and that you’ve got a coat to keep you dry when it rains, and that you go to bed at the right time so you get proper sleep.”

Sanji nodded. Thinking privately that maybe he wouldn’t mind if the going-to-bed-at-the-right-time got missed out once in a while.

Sora held his eyes with her own. “The thing is, _chéri:_ the people in charge of things would think I wasn’t doing my job properly, if they knew that I go out to work at night and didn’t have a babysitter staying here with you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Sanji folded his arms. “I’m not a baby.”

“I know.” His mother nodded. “But that’s not what the people in charge would think.”

“Who cares what they think,” Sanji declared.

Sora made a smile with her mouth again: but her eyes didn’t smile. They looked sad. “We have to be careful, _chéri_. If those people thought I wasn’t doing my job as your _maman_ properly, they could make life hard for us.”

Thinking about this, Sanji felt a little bit anxious. “Would we get into trouble?”

“Maybe I would.”

A knot tightened in Sanji’s stomach. “Would the police put you in prison?”

“No, no.” His mother reached out and took his hand: gave it a squeeze. “Don’t be scared, little chick. I promise nothing like that is going to happen. We’re a team, you and me.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “Okay?”

Sanji felt the knot inside him release a little. “...Okay.”

Sora put her arm round him then and gave him a hug.

Lying curled up under the sheets in the darkness now, Sanji felt sure he’d be able to keep that promise to his mother. They’d moved a couple more times since then, and although he still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, he’d taught himself to get back to sleep. Stories were good: he told them out loud in a whisper, remembering ones from storybooks or making up his own. Or thinking of his favourite things he liked to eat, a long list starting with the dishes he liked best – _moules frites_ and chocolate mousse - and going all the way down to not-so-good things like _île flottante_ (slimy, _yuck_ ).

Suddenly there was a high-pitched tiny whining near his ear: Sanji stuck his hand in the air and flapped it violently about, trying to bat the source of the noise away. “Scram, you wicked mosquitoes! You’re driving me ab-so-lute-ly crazy!” He ducked his head under the sheet.

 _But now my feet are sticking out._ His ankle itched: Sanji was tempted to scratch it, but knew that would only make the itch go away for a little while... and come back even bigger. He could pull up his feet under the sheet too, but it was stuffy under there. The August night was still heavy with the heat of the day, the thin walls of their apartment building didn’t make much of a shield against the sun’s rays.

 _Hope_ _César is busy eating zillions of you, pesky mosquitoes._

His ankle still itched and Sanji cautiously rubbed it against the mattress. Not scratching exactly.

_Hope we go to the beach tomorrow._

The best way to make the morning come was to make sleep come. Sanji let out a small sigh, then began picturing the biggest, most chocolaty mousse he could imagine.

He woke to the sound of singing.

_“The sea... Her white sheep fly, in the summer sky...with angels so pure...  
The sea... A shepherdess, of the infinite blue azure...”_

Sanji smiled and wriggled from his back onto his side, and opened his eyes. The curtain by the balcony doorway had been drawn back, and daylight flooded in.

_“The sea... Cradled them all, along her bright bays...  
And with a love song, the sea... calmed my heart, all my days...”_

Sora’s voice drifted from the kitchen corner, carrying the sea song along with the smells of coffee and warm croissants.

Kicking back the sheet Sanji sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, before looking across the room. His mother was standing at the stove, humming the tune of _La Mer_ softly as she heated a saucepan of milk. She met his gaze and gave him a slightly sleepy smile. “Good morning, little chick.”

Some days instead of going for a picnic they had to go shopping, either to the hypermarket or to the local market at St Pierre La Mer. Sanji liked the market better: all the good smells and colourful stalls, and Momo the pizza maker with his wood-fired oven and terrible jokes.

If there wasn’t much money they went to Le Mutant or Lidl, and his mother bought tins of tomatoes and dried pasta and tinned _cassoulet_ , which Sanji never included in his favourite-foods-to-go-to-sleep-to list, _ever_. Sometimes he saw other kids whining for treats in supermarket queues and felt a bit smug that he wasn’t doing that. He got treats from Sora when there was money for them; when there wasn’t enough money, there was no point in whining. He’d already gotten good at spotting the tell-tale signs when money was short: the way his mother’s mouth would tighten when she opened letters with bills in; her smoking only a couple of cigarettes a day, to make them last; or arguments on the doorstep with landlords about paying the rent a little late.

That hadn’t happened for a while, at least. Sora seemed to be finding plenty of nightshift work in nearby Narbonne, so even though she was often tired when she got home there had sometimes been enough money for occasional treats.

The best treat of all was something from _Patisserie Combot_ _,_ the bakery tucked away on the narrow old _Rue de l’Ancien Courier_. The _patisserie_ was popular with locals and tourists alike, but wasn’t cheap: they couldn’t often afford its wares. But his mother had a sweet tooth just like him, so once in a while she would bring home a small box of _bouchons de Languedoc_ , the honey and nut biscuits they both loved. 

Today though was a beach day. When his mother woke up from her nap they packed a cool-bag with their picnic lunch (cheese and salad baguette sandwiches, with nectarines for dessert and a bottle of water), before heading down the path that led between the apartment blocks and the car park to the sea front.

The beach was still crowded with families on their long summer break, but if you walked towards the far end where it got rocky it was usually easier to find a spot that hadn’t been taken. Sanji and his mother clambered over the rocky promontories until they came upon a favourite nook: a narrow cleft where there was just enough sand to spread a towel to sit on, with a little left over for digging in. They set up camp and ate their picnic: then Sora stretched out in the sun for another nap. (Really, grown-ups did seem to need a ridiculous amount of sleep.)

Sanji happily passed the time constructing an elaborate sand-fort and decorating it with shells that he foraged for between the rocks. When his mother woke up again they both had a swim in the sea, then a wave-jumping competition (the trick was to jump at the last second before the wave smacked into your front and splashed your face with sea water).

They were bouncing up and down in the waves and laughing when a man’s voice reached them.

“Oh... Someone already here, eh?”

Sanji’s mother stopped bouncing and looked back at the shore where their towel and bag lay. Standing next to them was a stocky dark-haired man in cut-off denim shorts, holding a fishing rod over one shoulder and a tackle box in the other hand. He must have climbed over the rocky promontory as they had, seeking a quiet fishing spot.

Taking Sanji’s hand and slowly wading out of the sea, Sanji’s mother stood on the sand. “Yes... It’s a good place for a picnic.”

The fisherman gave a quick smile. “Eh, fair enough... First come, first served.” He set his fishing rod and tackle box down against the rocks, then rummaged in his pocket: brought out a pack of Gauloises and a lighter. Sticking one in his mouth and lighting up, he offered the packet to Sanji’s mother. “Smoke?”

Sanji saw his mother’s mouth twist a little, as if she was uncertain. Then she gave a shrug and answering smile. “Okay... Thanks.” She walked to the fisherman and took a cigarette, leaning over to let him light it.

Still standing at the edge of the sea, Sanji felt a bit annoyed. Without even asking the fisherman had invited himself into their little secluded little corner of beach, and now he was perching comfortably on a rocky slab as if he planned to stay all day. Letting smoke wisp out of his mouth and nose as he spoke, the fisherman nodded in the direction of the main beach. “You’ve got the right idea tucking yourselves away here. The place is jammed today.”

“It’s nicer here where it’s quiet.” Sanji’s mother picked up her towel with her free hand and shook sand off it, before wiping seawater off her face and chest, then rubbing at her hair.

The fisherman watched her. “You’re local?”

“Yes...” Sanji’s mother didn’t elaborate.

The fisherman exhaled smoke, then tapped himself on his chest. “I’m Guillaume. I work in St Pierre la Mer, at the marina.” Then he raised his eyebrows slightly, as if giving a cue.

After a small pause, Sanji’s mother responded. “Sora. And this is Sanji.” She gestured at her son.

Guillaume gave Sanji a sidelong smile. “Enjoying a day at the beach with your _maman_ , eh?”

Sanji curled his toes into the damp sand and gave a slow nod. Wishing that Guillaume would take his fishing rod and go away.

“I come down this end of the beach because it’s usually quiet. Can’t catch any fish with all the racket up there!” Guillaume gestured towards the main beach, then smiled at Sora. “But I don’t mind sharing my fishing spot.”

“We got here first,” Sanji stated.

“Sanji.” His mother gave him a quick little frown.

Guillaume just laughed. “Fair point, little ‘un. I promise not to be a pest.”

_You’re already being a pest._

Sanji narrowed his eyes. Guillaume was appraising his mother with that stupid look that a lot of men seemed to get when they were around her: a sort of smile that said both, _I like you,_ and _Let’s see if I can make you like me_. Sanji was familiar with it... and it never failed to set his teeth on edge. He decided to try distraction as a tactic. “ _Maman_ , let’s swim some more.”

His mother looked at him, holding her cigarette. “In a little while, _mon chéri_... I just got dried off.”

Sanji dug his toes deeper into the sand. 

“You want to learn how to catch a fish?” Guillaume smiled at him, gesturing towards his fishing rod. “We could get lucky here, even with that noisy crowd just up the beach. Maybe get a nice mullet or dorade that your maman could fry up for your supper.”

Sanji was caught in indecision. He wanted Guillaume to go away... But catching an actual live fish from the sea would be pretty cool. He compromised by looking at the fishing rod and saying noncommittally, “Maybe there aren’t any fish here. Didn’t see any while we were swimming.”

“Heh, they’re crafty customers.” Guillaume chuckled, then drew on his cigarette. “But I’m cleverer than they are. Tell you what: I’ll bait up the line, then maybe you can help me hold the rod. You’re new to fishing, yes? So you’ll have beginner’s luck.” Crouching down and opening up his tackle box, he winked at Sanji. “I’ll bet the two of us working as a team will land something.”

Trying to stay stand-offish somehow didn’t work. Within a few minutes Sanji was crouched on the sand beside Guillaume, helping him bait several hooks with chunks of stale baguette and dip them into the sea to make the bread a little heavier.

“Do fish like bread?” Sanji asked, poking one of the damp chunks doubtfully.

“Some of ’em do.” Guillaume was carefully winding a loop of fishing line around each chunk of bread on the hooks. “You’ll see. If there’s mullet or bream out there they’ll jump over each other to get at it, the sea will bubble like a pot of _bouillabaisse_... And if we’re lucky one of them will be silly enough to get stuck on a hook while he’s chomping away at the bread. Then we’re in business!”

“What if we only catch a really little fish? Do we have to throw it back?”

“Not at all. You put the little tiddler on the hook as bait and use it to catch a bigger fish.” Guillaume took a last puff on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the damp sand. “Okay, Sanji: ready to try and outwit those crafty fishes?”

“Okay!”

How it had happened Sanji wasn’t sure, but Guillaume wasn’t annoying any longer. The fisherman showed him where the best place was to put their line into the sea, between the rocky promontories; before the two of them cast it out together, landing the baited hooks almost exactly where Guillaume had pointed. And then they sat and waited and watched.

Just as Guillaume had said, after a few long minutes the water began to boil around the half-floating chunks of baguette. Then there were sudden little twitches and tugs on the line, until eventually there came a jerking pull and Guillaume cried, “Now we’ve got him!” before seizing the reel and helping Sanji wind the line in. There on one of the hooks was a flickering, twitching silver fish.

That was just the beginning. Once they’d caught their first fish – a young mullet, Guillaume pronounced – the thirst for the chase was on. They baited their hooks with bread for a while, then Guillaume got out his Opinel knife and sliced up one of the smaller fish they’d caught and used that as a better lure. Sometimes there would be a tug on the line but when they reeled it in the bait was just gone: sometimes there would be another silvery fish jerking and flopping on a hook. Sanji got better and better at holding the rod with his fingers just touching the line, to feel the slightest nibble from the fishes.

By early evening they had caught eight fish, which Guillaume said was enough. He slid four into a plastic carrier bag produced from his tackle box, and handed them to Sanji. “Equal shares, my little friend. You’re a fine fisherman, bringing home the provisions for you and your _maman_.” And he winked.

Sanji gazed into the open bag, at the silvery plump bodies. Three dorades and one grey mullet, fresh from the sea.

“Sautéed with a little butter and dill, serve them warm with a squeeze of lemon juice... Food fit for the gods.” Guillaume kissed his fingertips. “ _Bon appétit_ , the both of you.”

Sora came to stand beside Sanji and looked into the bag too: smiled at her son. “Well done, _mon chéri_.”

“Can we cook them for supper?” Sanji suddenly couldn’t wait to find out what his fish tasted like.

“Of course. One of them, at least. The others we can freeze, to eat another day.” She gave him a teasing look. “Unless you think you can eat all of them in one go!”

“Okay.” Sanji continued to gaze at his fish appreciatively. Maman was right: there were four meals there at least, and he’d been the one to provide them. (With Guillaume’s help, of course.)

The fisherman had been packing away his own four fish in his tackle box. He went to the sea’s edge and crouched to wash his hands in the water, before standing again and drying them on his cut-offs. Then he strolled back to where his tackle box and rod waited, retrieving his pack of Gauloises as he came. Sticking another cigarette between his lips, he proffered the pack to Sora again. “One for the road?”

Sanji’s mother smiled as she took a cigarette for herself, and gave Guillaume an acknowledging nod. “Thanks. And thank you for showing my son how to fish.”

“Eh, it’s nothing.” Guillaume blew out smoke, one corner of his mouth lifting up in an answering smile. “It’s nice to have some company. Normally I fish alone, but it’s been fun.” His eyes rested on her. “I usually fish off the rocks up by the marina, you can catch some big ones there. And there’s a little bar a stone’s throw away, okay place to talk over a beer. Sometimes they have music, just local bands but pleasant enough. Not too rowdy. If you fancied a drink some time.”

Sora inhaled smoke, her eyes narrowing a little. Then she gave Guillaume a small smile. “That’s friendly of you. But I work late shifts: I’m a hotel night concierge in Narbonne, so I don’t really get to socialise much.”

Guillaume looked disappointed, but managed a cheerful shrug. “Too bad. Don’t you have nights off?”

“Never the same nights two weeks running. My shift patterns are a nightmare, my boss is a real bastard.” Sora made a face. “But it’s steady work, so I make the best of it. It’d be hellish finding a new job, so much unemployment round here.”

“Yeah, this country’s going to the dogs,” agreed Guillaume with a smoky sigh. “And once the tourist season’s over this place is dead as a doornail. If you’ve got a secure job, best to hang on to it.”

“I plan to. After all, it’s not just me I have to consider.” Sora glanced briefly at Sanji, who’d been unobtrusively eavesdropping this whole conversation.

“Of course.” Guillaume gave a quick nod of understanding; before picking up his tackle box and fishing rod. “Eh well... I best be off. Nice spending an afternoon with you both. Sanji: you have the makings of a champion fisherman, I can tell already. Come by the marina sometime and I’ll show you where the big fellas swim and how to catch them!” He held out a hand for the boy to shake: Sanji did so, glancing up at his mother. Sora just smiled at him, as Guillaume continued, “And the three of us can go for ice cream and a drink at the _Bar Le Quai_ afterwards. My treat.”

“That’s very generous of you to offer.” Sora nodded, but Sanji could tell from her voice that she’d already decided no.

“Ask at the marina, everyone knows me there. My days off are Mondays and Tuesdays: any other time I’ll be knocking around somewhere, fixing up some rich idiot’s yacht.” Guillaume grinned wryly. “Money’s wasted on the rich, eh.”

The sun was dipping towards the sea when Sanji and his mother walked back to their concrete-walled apartment block. Sanji insisted on carrying his fish, occasionally peeking inside the carrier bag to admire their silvery scaled bodies. Sora carried their bathing things and picnic cooler, walking beside him.

After a few minutes, Sanji decided to ask what he’d been wondering about. “Can we go see Guillaume at the marina?”

His mother didn’t answer straight away. When she did, her voice was quiet. “Probably not, _mon chéri_.”

Sanji had been expecting that answer, but was still a bit disappointed. “Why?”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Because he wants to be your boyfriend and you don’t want to be his girlfriend?” Sanji had figured that one out.

Sora laughed, and looked at him. “Maybe.”

“Couldn’t we at least go and have ice cream with him?” Sanji had been tempted by that lure as well as by the promise of maybe catching even bigger fish.

“Nothing in life is free. Not even ice cream.” His mother said this simply, her voice sounding suddenly flat. Then she sighed; shook her head, and tried to smile. “We can buy ice cream next time we go shopping.”

Sanji said nothing in reply to this: partly because he’d learned from experience that future treats might disappear if his mother’s funds were low; and partly also because ice cream bought from the supermarket wasn’t the same as eating ice cream in a bar from a glass dish with a long spoon and lots of things on top like sprinkles and chocolate sauce and chopped nuts.

His mother noticed his silence. “Hey, little chick... You were fabulous today, catching fish for our supper. I can’t wait to taste it. Shall we have fried potatoes too?”

Sanji perked up. “I can peel the potatoes!”

“Good. Then I’ll clean the fish, we can cook it together. We’ll have a feast.” Sora gave him a mischievous grin. “Hey - race you home! Bet you can’t beat me.”

They ran the rest of the way, and Sanji got there first.

Supper that night was delicious, each of them savouring the pan-fried dorade, tender and flaky, with crispy sautéed potatoes.

After supper Sora went to her bedroom, to dress and do her make-up for work. Sanji wandered out to sit on the balcony, waiting for César to appear. The little lizard poked his head out from under a roof tile, punctual as ever: then scuttled about hovering up his evening feast of insects. 

“You didn’t do a very good job on the mosquitoes last night, César,” Sanji commented sternly. “I got bitten _again_.”

César cocked his head, appearing to listen for a moment; then darted forward to snap up an ant.

“I caught eight fish today. In the sea.” Sanji folded his arms on the balcony edge, then rested his chin on them. “This guy Guillaume helped.”

The little lizard darted forwards to seize a bigger prey: a yellow-winged moth that had just alighted on the roof. Sanji watched it disappear into César’s mouth with three or four snaps of the lizard’s jaws, and tried not to think about promises of ice cream.

“Sanji! Time for bed, _mon chéri_.” His mother’s voice reached him from the main room.

“I’m watching César,” Sanji almost-argued, hoping this would suffice.

Footsteps, and the squeak of the balcony door being pushed wider open. Then the soft rustle of his mother’s blouse as she bent down beside him, to look too. “Ah, there he is. He looks busy.”

“He just ate a great big huge moth.”

“That won’t do,” Sora answered mock-sternly. She raised her voice. “Eh, César! You’ve a thousand and one mosquitoes to catch and eat up, before you can start on the moths! You better get to work.”

Sanji giggled, then yawned: his mother slid her arm around him. “C’mon, little chick: time to go to sleep. It’s been a busy day. Swimming in the sea, catching fish, racing home...”

“I won,” Sanji reminded her, through another yawn.

“So you did. Show me how fast you can race through cleaning your teeth and getting into bed!”

Bathroom, pyjamas, slipping under the sheet, being tucked in. His mother bending down to kiss him and give him a hug, her sweet warm smell close. Then straightening up and telling him goodnight, sweet dreams, moving away. The _clack-clack_ of her shoes on the tiled floor; then the soft _clunk_ of the apartment door closing behind her.

Another summer’s night. The curtain across the balcony door breathing in, out, with the soft breeze. Sanji lying with his eyes shut scheming ways to make morning come. Thinking of pistachio ice cream, in a tall glass dish with a long spoon: drizzled with chocolate syrup, scattered with chopped toasted hazelnuts and almonds. Picturing himself eating it, one spoonful at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing anything which has phrases or words in languages other than English gives an English-speaking writer some decisions to make: about what to translate, what to italiscise, and whether using other languages is even necessary. I've included some French words in Sanji's backstory passages - even though that's illogical because he and his mother would be speaking French all the time, so to be consistent I should put all of their conversations into English. The reason I've done this is to try to give a slightly French feel to the dialogue: I've basically compromised logic for the sake of creative effect. If the inconsistency annoys anyone then soz, try to go with it... I'll keep it minimal.
> 
> I've used two versions of the same song in this chapter: Sora sings the original French song, La Mer, by Charles Trenet; whereas the quote at the beginning is from Beyond The Sea by Bobby Darin, which uses the same tune but changes the words and style considerably. TBH I prefer the original, but Darin's rework has a certain charm too.
> 
> Once again, thank you all so much for the kudos and comments. They are to me what bouchons de Languedoc are to Sanji. <3 :)


	5. Zero F*cks About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As both kendōka faced off in the centre of the court, Zoro met his opponent’s gaze. Felt that heat of anger rising, ready to be unleashed. Into his mind came Koshiro’s voice, endlessly calm. 
> 
> \- Utte hansei utarete kanshya.
> 
> It was an old Japanese proverb: Learn as much from being hit, as you learn from hitting.
> 
> The chief shinpan held both his flags down by his sides. “Encho hajime!”
> 
> Shinai lifted, tips touching.
> 
> \- Sensei, I want to win. I get hit, I’m losing.
> 
> \- Losing is how we learn. Reflect on your successful strikes; show gratitude for the strikes against you.
> 
> Each point on Zoro’s body that had been struck seemed joined by the pulse of his blood: warm pain thrumming through muscle, sinew, bone. As the two fighters began to move, bamboo flashing to strike hard against bamboo, he felt the anger roiling inside. Powerful, familiar, tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warning:
> 
> Non-life-threatening physical injuries (no gore)

* * *

_I said come on, zero fucks about it  
Come on, I know I'm gonna get hurt  
Come on, zero fucks about it  
Come on_

_\- Tove Lo_

* * *

_[Back in the here and now.]_

Sanji’s cup of _café au lait_ had long been drunk. On the plate just a few crumbs showed where the _bouchons de Languedoc_ had been.

Sanji had been gazing at the empty plate for a long time. Not really seeing it. Lost in memories, in images, in the sights and sounds and smells of his childhood. Tasting the honey sweetness on his tongue; a familiar ache of longing in his chest.

At last his gaze came back to where he was. Focused on the empty plate and cup. Sanji blinked, then let out a slow sigh.

One hand reached for his cigarettes, the other for his lighter. He sparked up; inhaled smoke, then released it in a long blue-grey stream. Feeling the familiar heat in his throat, the nicotine hit reach his brain. Soothing some of the ache.

_Maybe I shouldn’t have bought those biscuits._

His mind rejected the thought even as he had it. The _bouchons_ were a taste of his childhood; and the memories of his mother Sora were precious. The feelings of loss such memories brought were a price the chef was willing to pay, if it meant he could revisit those early days.

_That was a good time._

He had to hold on to that. No matter what came afterwards, he and his mother had been happy together, for more than six years. He’d been cared for; and cherished; and loved. Nothing could ever take that away from him.

_But I fucking miss her._

Drawing on his cigarette, Sanji’s brows drew together, his eyes narrowing.

_Okay, time to stop remembering. Enough for today._

He deliberately reached for his phone: checked the time on it. Mid-afternoon. He had a few hours before Zoro came over. Time enough to try out those new recipes for _Bite Me,_ to create a tasty supper for the two of them.

The thought of the swordsman made Sanji smile wryly. _Bet the moss-head’s having a whale of a time, beating the crap out of people._

Having a bundle of fun had never, in fact, been one of Zoro’s priorities for being a kendōka. Feeling satisfaction, sure: when he beat an opponent or mastered a difficult move. But the gruelling hours of practice, relentless discipline, and regular minor injuries like bruises and stomped toes, made kendo a sport where fun wasn’t really high on most people’s agenda.

All that said, if anyone had asked Zoro if he enjoyed fighting shiai with other kendōka, he’d have been lying if he didn’t admit to getting a buzz from it. Not in the same way as he had in his teenage fights for money, though. When he was wearing his bōgu and holding his shinai he never let the red mist come down. Focus and skill and speed were what he used to win against kendo opponents. Winning a shiai was about flawless zanshin and skilful execution of technique, not just about fighting instincts. You didn’t win through simple strength or brutality.

Or at least that was the theory. It appeared however, that the kendōka at Wani Dojo had not received that particular memo. 

“Holy fuck.” Yosaku winced as he flexed his right arm, rubbing his elbow. “Did someone piss in these guys’ coffee this morning, or do they just hate all mankind?”

“Haters, mos’ def,” Johnny responded without hesitation. He was occupied in taping up his right big toe, from which the toenail had been ripped ten minutes previously during a collision with a Wani kendōka during jigeiko _._

Zoro grunted, opening and closing his right fist and regarding his knuckles. The first two were dark red, deepening to purple, and already starting to swell from an over-forceful attempt at a kote strike that he’d received. “Fuckers can’t do tenouchi for shit.”

“Bet they can do it,” Yosaku argued. “They probably just think it’s for wusses.”

“We’ve only been here...” Johnny peered at the clock on the far wall of the dojo “...like, two hours; and I’m down one toe nail and a shinai. Whose crazy-ass idea was it to take on these Wani headcases?”

“Yours,” Yosaku and Zoro responded in unison.

“Shit.” Johnny regarded his splintered shinai dejectedly. “Think anyone’d notice if we snuck off at lunch and didn’t come back?”

“Hell with that.” Zoro stood up, picking up his bōgu and shinai. “Let’s go get some food, then we can come back and hand these guys their asses. C’mon.”

The Wani dojo was in a neighbourhood well-supplied with eateries, and the trio hit up the nearest fast food joint for take-out burgers and cold drinks, before heading for a bench in the shade in a nearby square.

“How long’ve we got before we got to head back and suffer some more?” Johnny poked at his food unenthusiastically.

“Individual shiai start at two o’clock; so we got...” Yosaku checked the time on his phone. “A half hour.”

“Okay. Half an hour to live.” Johnny picked up his burger and sighed. “I kinda hoped my final meal on earth would be something special.”

“Hey, bro.” Yosaku nudged Zoro in the ribs. “We gotta talk tactics. How’re we gonna uphold the honour of Kogaku Kan?”

“And maybe not get killed.” Johnny pitched this in hopefully.

Zoro shrugged. “Same as usual. Go in intending to win.”

“Shit, I knew I was doing something wrong.” Johnny face-palmed.

“Ignore this dipshit.” Yosaku shoved his friend sideways, before looking appealingly at Zoro. “Seriously, bro. These Wani guys are making everyone else in there look like a noob... They’re just ploughing through whoever’s in their way.”

“So go in hard. Stand firm.” Zoro took a long swallow of cold water. “Fuckers’ll slip up and make a mistake sooner or later. Make sure you’re ready to take your shot when you see that opening.”

“Makes me really ‘preciate Takahashi,” Johnny said feelingly. “The sensei at this Wani place must be a total psycho. Wonder what happens if you screw up in his dojo?”

“Pain, I’m guessing.” Yosaku rubbed his elbow again.

“I hear some Japanese dojos push their students real hard, they can get busted up pretty bad. Maybe it’s worth it, though... If it turns you into a total bad-ass kendōka.”

“Bullshit,” Zoro interjected. “Takahashi’s a great sensei, _and_ he’s a shit-hot kendōka. And you don’t see him teaching us that kind of macho crap. You can floor a guy and hit him when he’s down, but that doesn’t win you the shiai.”

“Dude, if the business end of one of these guy’s shinai bypasses my tare and threatens my future family prospects, I for one am gonna be calling it a day.” Johnny gestured with his coke can. “Like, they have no boundaries whatsoever. Kinda get the feeling that if they killed someone by accident, it’d be no biggie.”

“Stopping you having offspring?” Yosaku snickered. “They’d be doing the world’s gene pool a favour.”

“Dipshit.” Johnny gave him the finger.

Lunch break over, the three kendōka returned to Wani dojo. The large room’s only windows were high up along the walls and had been open since the start of the day, letting in some air. Even so the room felt warm.

“They think air con’s for wusses or something?” Johnny grumbled. “Must be eighty degrees in here.”

Having spent the week working in similarly purgatorial conditions, Zoro shrugged this off. “Means their guys’ll be sweating as much as we are.”

“They got the shiai pairings up.” Yosaku pointed at a whiteboard on a stand at one end of the room, where a series of names had been written in pairs for combat.

The trio went to study their prospects. After a half-minute of silence, Johnny let out a groan. “I’m up in the first round against that fucker who stomped my toenail. Great.”

“Payback time,” suggested Zoro, studying the board.

“Team matches woulda been more fun,” Yosaku commented. “Least you get more recovery time.”

“Get to fight more different opponents this way,” Zoro countered.

Yosaku let out a short amused _huff_. “Yeah, right. You will, maybe. The rest of us are gonna be patching our injuries on the sidelines after the first hour.” 

Yosaku’s prediction was pretty much on the money. Despite there being a large-sized crowd of visiting kendōka turning up to take on the Wani fighters, by late afternoon their ranks had been whittled down to a scant few. Many of the pairs left fighting shiai were Wani kendōka taking on each other, which didn’t seem to curb their ferocity.

Johnny had bowed out of the fray early on, his injured toe hampering him enough that it only took four rounds of shiai for him to drop by the wayside. Yosaku lasted longer, but eventually went down to a tsuki strike that sent him reeling backwards. He retired, virtually voiceless with a bruised throat, to metaphorically cheer Zoro on from the sidelines.

Zoro registered his friends’ defeats, but only on the periphery of his awareness. For the first time in months he was finally getting the kendo workout he needed. The Wani fighters might be using brute force, but that didn’t mean they were unskilful kendōka. Mostly they were quick, aggressive, and totally focussed on winning.

The shinpan too were kendōka from Wani dojo, and didn’t seem overly concerned about calling hansoku fouls for rough stuff. More than once Zoro took strikes that slammed against his bōgu as if his opponent thought he was wielding a real sword rather than a shinai. In a tournament situation that would have been called out, the kendōka penalised for being heavy-handed: but not here. It seemed that at Wani dojo, pretty much everything was fair game.

It was tempting to fight back in kind. If the shinpan weren’t going to come down on violent tactics, Zoro knew a few ways he could retaliate. After a couple of hours fighting gruelling shiai in the overwarm dojo and collecting bruises on most reachable parts of his anatomy, Zoro was feeling pretty motivated to deal back some of that pain. But something deterred him.

_That’s not how I learned kendo._

His training had never encouraged fighting dirty. Takahashi disapproved of brute force being used as a substitute for correct technique. And Zoro’s formative years as a kendōka had been under Koshiro’s tutelage, a sensei who expected nothing less than total ki-ken-tai-no-ichi: body, sword and spirit as one.

It wasn’t easy to hold on to that principle when fighting these Wani headcases. But the more bludgeoning hits he took, the more grimly Zoro stuck to what he’d learned. It was an extra battle he needed to win here in this dojo: not to be pushed into retaliating, abandoning years of discipline and training just for the sake of evening up the score.

As the afternoon continued, the numbers of kendōka thinned out. Those who’d fought and lost shiai had retired to sit on benches at the edges of the room, or left altogether. Zoro had just finished his match against a tall Wani kendōka named Fuka, winning two points to one; now he walked away to the edge of the dojo, where Johnny and Yosaku were still spectating.

“You showed him, bro.” Yosaku gave him a grin and a thumbs-up, his voice still slightly hoarse from his tsuki-bruised throat.

“He stomp your foot or something?” Johnny inquired, noticing the slight limp the swordsman had approached them with.

Zoro sat down on the bench, laying down his men and kote and propping his shinai beside him. “Yeah.” He lifted his right foot and regarded it critically: the top was already bruised a dull red, where Fuka had stamped hard on it as he lunged forwards. Zoro flexed the ball of his foot and grimaced, feeling it ache.

“Bet some of these fuckers would try for deashibarai,” Yosaku groused. “Shinpan don’t give two shits what’s going down here.”

“Foot sweeps are way illegal,” Johnny pointed out.

“So’s almost giving your opponent a tracheotomy, and that isn’t holding ‘em back any.”

Sweat tracked down Zoro’s skin from his effortful fight. He reached for his headcloth and used it to wipe his face, before gazing round the dojo. A few kendōka were sparring in different corners of the room, practicing technique. The only actual shiai still in progress was – predictably - between two Wani kendōka. Both were big guys, tall and square shouldered. They were going at each other like it was a grudge match, the sounds of their kiai and clashing shinai echoing off the dojo walls.

“Looks like you’re gonna be up against one of them,” Johnny observed. “Which one you think’s gonna edge it?”

Zoro studied the fighting kendōka for a few moments. “That guy. Huesos.” The name of the white-tagged kendōka was clearly visible on his tare. “Serious mofo. Haven’t seen him lose a shiai yet.”

As they watched, Huesos executed a swift dō strike that produced a loud crack of bamboo on lacquered bōgu. His opponent was jolted sideways from the blow as the three shinpan thrust their white flags into the air, signalling the winning point.

“Whoa...” Johnny winced, as the losing kendōka recovered his stance and faced off against his opponent. “These guys even hate _each other_.”

Zoro made no reply. His eyes narrowed as he watched Huesos move around the court, studying the fighter to see if he had a pattern. The kendōka was built like a tank, but it didn’t seem to slow him down any. His style seemed to be mostly about attacking, although maybe that was because he didn’t give his opponents any chances to go on the offense themselves. 

A minute later the shiai ended, when Huesos scored his second point with a kote strike that was executed with as much aggressive force as the dō strike that had preceded it.

“Game over,” declared Yosaku, shaking his head.

“Looks like the shinpan are calling a time out,” Johnny remarked, nodding towards the three referees who had gathered to confer. “Shit... That means Huesos gets a breather ‘fore you take him on.”

“Whatever.” Zoro picked up his water bottle and took a swig, draining the last mouthful in there before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Not in any hurry.”

Across the room Huesos walked to a bench against the dojo wall, before stripping off his kote and men and sitting down. He too picked up a water bottle and chugged on it; then sat back and let his gaze travel round the dojo to check out the pairs of fighters sparring elsewhere.

Zoro assessed his rival kendōka. Even sitting down the guy still looked like a fucking Marine: shaved head, unibrow, thickly-muscled build undisguised by his kendo uniform. Dark tan skin and half-Latino, half-African features: Colombian or Cuban, maybe. Long powerful arms and large hands.

After a minute or so, Huesos’ gaze eventually travelled across the room and connected with Zoro’s. The other man’s eyes narrowed, just a little... Before the big kendōka folded his arms and looked steadily back. With an expression which said, _What the fuck are you looking at?_

A flame sparked up in Zoro’s gut. He let a smile come onto his own face, returning Huesos’ stare with interest.

_Glare all you like, asshole. You’re going down._

After a ten-minute break the shinpan walked out again into the court in the centre of the dojo, signalling their readiness for the shiai to begin. Both kendōka had already put on their men and kote and had been pacing along the sides of the dojo space, warming up: almost in unison they turned and walked into the court too.

Zoro, wearing the red mejirushi strip of cloth on his back, faced his opponent: Huesos’ eyes a dark slanted shadow behind the metal grille of his men. Both bowed, shinai in their left hands, then took the three steps in to the court’s centre; readied their shinai in both hands to fight and crouched down in sonkyo. Then they were rising into stance and moving forward, shinai sweeping swiftly together with a clash of bamboo.

They broke apart but their shinai held still crossed, testing distance and reactions. Side-sweep and counterstrike, feet moving quickly as each kendōka sought a position of advantage.

Instantly Zoro confirmed what he’d suspected from watching Huesos fight: the taller man used his height and long reach as well as his strength to full advantage.

_Better fucking watch out for those men strikes._

A flurry of exchanged blows took them across the court, neither gaining the upper hand. Zoro tried for a kote strike but Huesos twisted mid-step, evading the blow and moving in swiftly to meet Zoro’s shinai with his own: getting his weight behind it with an impact that shocked through Zoro’s arms. The taller man followed through blurringly fast with a dō strike, but instead of hitting the chest armour the shinai struck hard against Zoro’s unprotected elbow.

Bamboo slammed against bone, sending a jolt of pain along Zoro’s right arm. He felt it zing like an electric shock into his fingertips, nerves jangling under the blow.

_Fuck –_

It always hurt to get hit on the elbow, but this was a whole different league. For a moment Zoro’s fingers felt numb, loosening his grip on his shinai. Huesos pressed home his offensive, pushing the swordsman back across the court with a flurry of shinai blows and loud kiai that rang in the dojo’s heated air.

Sidestepping rapidly to regain control, Zoro changed up the situation: stepped right back so that the tips of their shinai were just touching. Huesos followed his move and the two kendōka circled, feeling each other out; making occasional feints to asses each other’s weaknesses.

Like a striking snake Huesos suddenly attacked again, aiming for men. It seemed a sloppy move that Zoro easily parried – but Huesos kept right on coming, both his clenched fists on the hilt of his shinai punching full force into the metal grille of his opponent’s men-gane.

The impact slammed Zoro’s head backwards so hard he reeled, bare feet skidding on the wooden floor. He managed to catch himself and bring his shinai round in time to block the next strike aimed at him. Huesos rained down blows as if he was trying to batter his opponent’s guard down by sheer persistence.

_Hell with this._

The punch to his men-gane had fucked with his balance; but Zoro was pissed enough not to care. Looking to retaliate he thought he saw an opening for men and went for it. His shinai connected, not quite clean enough for yuko datotsu and gaining a point, but shit: he had just been punched in the face by this asshole. He raised his arms high in zanshin, keeping good post-attack form. Only for half a second; but that was all the window of opportunity Huesos needed.

The big kendōka swept his shinai around in a lightning-fast diagonal slash, as if for another dō strike to Zoro’s left side - but aiming above the chest armour. Instead of the crack of bamboo against lacquered armour, there was a sharp _thud_ as the wood connected with muscle and bone.

Zoro lost his breath, arms dropping down. Stepping back, keeping moving, ready to parry any follow-up: but with sweat flooding his skin.

_Son of a bitch -_

The shinpan appeared to be unperturbed, the trio continuing to observe the fighting kendōka as if nothing untoward had occurred. Huesos pressed home his advantage, attacking aggressively again and trying to push Zoro back across the court. Their shinai clashed, Zoro blocking his strike: then they were close, tsuba of each shinai suddenly locked together. Huesos let out a roar of a kiai, eyes staring through his men grille. Zoro shouted too, wrists braced, feeling the pull on his muscles from holding the other kendōka at bay; the sharp ache flowering in his ribs.

Then they were both stepping back, shinai sliding along each other to touch tip to tip; shifting, switching position, feeling for an opening.

Zoro saw the other man start shifting his stance, even as he made his own move. He focused on Heusos’ right wrist, visualising the kote strike he was going to land there. But as Zoro stepped forward into his kote strike, Huesos moved too: a sudden thrust forwards of his shinai, tip aimed squarely at Zoro’s throat.

Their combined momentum brought the taller man’s shinai against Zoro’s tsuki-dare throat guard with enough force to knock him backwards. Zoro almost went down: staggered and flung one arm out for balance, just catching himself as he heard the shinpan proclaim, “Tsuki ari!”

 _ Shit _ _._

Recovering his poise, Zoro walked slowly back to the centre of the court; bringing his shinai up to meet his opponent’s. Meeting the dark gaze of Heusos, steady through his men-gane. Trying to swallow past the bruised feeling in his throat. Breathing hard.

_Just fucking walked into mukae-zuki._

Anger was welling up into the pit of his stomach, hot and heavy. Anger against Huesos, for being a heavy-handed asshole: but more for himself, for being sloppy. _I lost the centre, he took a shot. Now I’m one point down. Wake the fuck up, Roronoa._

They were back to testing each other’s guard; edging forwards, shifting back. Shinai crossed, pressing together. Kiai uttered loud and harsh, trying to own the space.

Zoro didn’t wait for the other man to make the first decisive move. He made a feint towards Heusos’ right kote, then flicked his shinai sideways to try for a dō strike.

The big kendōka parried both moves, using the heft of his shinai to force Zoro’s downwards and then following up with an ungraceful attack to men. The bamboo sword slammed into the top of Zoro’s head as if the other man was aiming to cleave his opponent in two.

Vision exploding into dark and bright stars, sounds sliding into white noise, Zoro took one step back and held his shinai to parry whatever was coming next. Wondering if he was going to hear through the hissing in his ears the shinpan shout, _Men ari!_

The announcement of another point won didn’t happen, probably because of the other fighter’s shitty technique.

Blinking and shaking his head, Zoro forced his eyes back into focus. Seeing Huesos taking up stance again, already on the aggressive.

_How much time have we got left?_

Shiai were five minutes long, without going into extra time. If Heusos got a second point, this was over.

_The fuck he will._

That anger was kindling in Zoro’s gut, building like smoke. Not because he’d gotten hit: in kendo he expected to take some strikes. You made it as difficult as you could, for your opponent to land a blow as cleanly and correctly as he needed to score... But getting hit was part of the sport.

Getting the holy shit whacked out of you, however, wasn’t meant to be. That was what learning good tenouchi was all about: using your grip and the strength of your wrists to control the movement of your shinai. Zoro had had that impressed into him, over and over, by Koshiro.

_\- A kendōka with poor tenouchi hits far too hard. Kendo strikes should be strong enough to feel but firm and sharp in speed. A shinai is a sword: if it feels like it could cut through your whole head or body, this is too much. Proper tenouchi will fix this._

He remembered the slight smile Koshiro had got on his face as he offered one more helpful tip.

_\- Think of it this way: a men strike should feel like it'll stop around the eyes if it was done with a real sword._

Zoro’s vision was clear now. A throbbing ache in his head matched the hot darts of pain in his ribs.

_Take back this shiai. Fucking do it._

The anger sat in the pit of his stomach, like a heavy weight: but he couldn’t let his opponent get under his skin. Huesos was ploughing through this shiai like a tank, and the shinpan didn’t give a shit.

_Deal, and move on._

He needed to channel that anger into focus. Use it to sharpen his gaze, to slow his breathing; to bring his balance into a place where he couldn’t be pushed where he didn’t want to go.

He chose his target.

_Men strike._

Swift step forward and the slam of the ball of his foot against the wooden floor. Arms lifting lightning quick, reaching out and through Huesos’ guard in a decisive strike: feeling the flick of shinai against the other man’s head. Keeping his own tenouchi strong, lifting his arms and springing back in zanshin even as he cried out loudly. _“Men!”_

And at last, the shinpan’s red flags shot up in the air.

“Men ari!”

The two kendōka drew apart and moved back to the centre of the court. Zoro met Huesos’ gaze as their shinai tips lifted and touched.

_That’s how you do a men strike right, shithead._

It didn’t seem to inspire Huesos to fight less dirty. After a few seconds he landed another sweeping hit on Zoro’s right elbow, almost the exact same place he’d bludgeoned earlier in the match. A few more close-in exchanges of shouted kiai with tsuba grinding together followed, then they pushed apart again. Huesos went for a kote strike which missed the padded wrist guard and smashed into Zoro’s knuckles. The swordsman put a lot of what he was feeling into his next kiai, mainly because the alternative of shouting _Fuck you, asshole!_ at his opponent wasn’t something he was going to get away with.

The big Wani kendōka pulled back then swiftly cut down at Zoro’s right side, going for a dō strike again. Zoro blocked it and swept their shinai upwards, arms lifted: and Huesos simply lunged forwards with braced shinai and locked arms, using his weight to crash into the swordsman like an express train.

The tai-atari slammed Zoro backwards. Before he could recover Huesos collided with him again, shoving into his aching left side - and he went down hard, shoulder and head hitting the floor.

Sheer cussedness made Zoro speedily push himself back up to sitting: instinct made him throw up his shinai, just in time to parry a blow aimed at him from above.

_The fuck -_

Huesos struck at him again, shinai slashing downwards. Zoro parried this second blow and got his right foot flat on the floor, bringing himself back up to standing with the urge to commit homicide. The shinpan paced around the edges of the court, gazing expressionlessly at the bullshit that had just gone down.

Zoro felt the anger welling up from his guts like heat, flooding through him. Took a deep breath in an effort to ground himself, catching it as a spike of pain arrowed through his ribs. Feeling the ache in his shoulder where he’d landed, his head muzzy. Flexing his right hand on the hilt of his shinai, bruised fingers protesting.

_This guy’s really asking to get his shit fucked up._

As he had this thought, the head shinpan lifted both flags. “ _Yame!”_

They were out of time. The match would go into encho-sen, both of them fighting on till the definitive second point got scored.

As both kendōka faced off in the centre of the court, Zoro met his opponent’s gaze. Felt that heat of anger rising, ready to be unleashed.

Into his mind came Koshiro’s voice, endlessly calm. 

_\- Utte hansei utarete kanshya._

It was an old Japanese proverb.

_\- Learn as much from being hit, as you learn from hitting._

The chief shinpan held both his flags down by his sides. “ _Encho hajime!”_

Shinai lifted, tips touching.

_\- Sensei, I want to win. I get hit, I’m losing._

_\- Losing is how we learn. Reflect on your successful strikes; show gratitude for the strikes against you._

Each point on Zoro’s body that had been struck seemed joined by the pulse of his blood: warm pain thrumming through muscle, sinew, bone. As the two fighters began to move, bamboo flashing to strike hard against bamboo, he felt the anger roiling inside. Powerful, familiar, tempting.

_Learn from being hit._

Parry, feint, strike, counter-strike. Two pairs of feet stamping against the wooden floor; voices rough with shouting kiai. Sweat stinging Zoro’s eyes and sticking his keikogi to his back.

_Losing is how we learn._

If he let the red mist take over, Zoro would have lost. Not only the shiai; but himself. He breathed deep into the hard knot of anger. Let it unravel. Felt instead a stillness rise.

_Not gonna lose today, sensei._

Zoro’s vision sharpened, focusing in on how Huesos was moving; where he was going to move next. Seeing exactly where his own strike needed to be. The motions his body would take to get there.

Their shinai clashed and slid back; fenced tip to tip. Huesos angled his arms, readying for a strike, shifting off-centre just for a moment.

And then Zoro was powering forward, driving in, through the opening he’d sensed was coming. The movement sure and swift, finding the lacquered armour at his opponent’s side.

_“Dō!”_

The shinpan’s red flags flicked upwards. _“Shōbu ari!”_

Both kendōka returned to the starting lines in the centre of the court and stood in chūdan-no-kamae, breathing hard. They heard the chief shinpan's pronouncement of Zoro’s win; crouched in sonkyo before stepping back. Brought their shinai to their left hip and exchanged bows.

Then both fighters straightened up, turned and walked off the court in opposite directions. In Zoro’s case, to where Johnny and Yosaku were standing by the bench at the edge of the dojo, grinning from ear to ear and pumping fists into the air.

“Epic shiai, bro!”

 _“_ Totally awesome!”

Sitting down on the bench, Zoro slid off his kote before reaching up and unlacing his men and taking it off. The rush of air against his sweat-slick face and neck felt good.

“Those frikkin’ shinpan must’ve taken a vow not to call hansoku unless someone died out there.” Yosaku shook his head towards the three referees now leaving the court. “That Wani gaki tried every dirty move in the book, but you kept comin’ back at him. And man: shit-hot kigurai, as well as solid execution. Poetry in motion.” Yosaku slapped Zoro enthusiastically on the shoulder.

Pulling his tenugui off his sweat-soaked hair, the swordsman picked up his water bottle to take a gulp, before remembering that he’d already drained it before his match. “You mean the poetic moment where he knocked me on my ass?”

“Fuckin’ extra tai-atari,” Johnny groused. “Those shinpan don’t know a rulebook from their ass.”

“You showed him anyway, bro.” Yosaku grinned, before raising his hand to high-five Johnny. “Wani murked by Kogaku-Kan, boom!”

Smiling at his two friends’ enthusiasm, Zoro scrubbed one hand through his sweaty hair... And winced slightly as his fingers found a tender area on top of his head. Other aches were checking in with him as well, and he had a killer thirst. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

The showers in the locker room were occupied by Wani kendōka who appeared to be unmotivated to let anyone else get in there any time soon: so the three men opted just to change clothes and pack up their kendo kit before heading out onto the street.

“Wohhh, that first beer is gonna taste like something holy,” Johnny declaimed. “Let’s find a bar not too near, in case we run into any vexed Wani losers.”

“Let the epic drinking commence,” Yosaku agreed.

“Raincheck.” Zoro had just checked the time on his phone: it was later than he’d thought. “Gotta make tracks.”

“Just one beer, bro!” Johnny regarded his friend with widened eyes. “C’mon...”

It was tempting... But Zoro shook his head. “Already running late.”

“Your cook gonna rag on you for letting his food go cold?” Yosaku grinned. “Better watch out. That’s one dude who _can_ kick your ass.”

“Like hell.”

“That men strike affecting your memory? You forget already how Sanji savated you into the floor, a few months back?”

“He got lucky,” grunted Zoro.

“Whatever you say, bro.”

They parted company on the street corner: Johnny and Yosaku beer-bound, Zoro heading to catch a bus. Once he was en route - sitting as close to an open window as he could - the swordsman sent Sanji a brief text.

_‘OMW. Be there in a few.’_

There was a pause of a minute or so... Then an answering text landed in reply.

 _‘Cool. :)_ _’_ And then, a moment later, _‘Kill anyone at kendo?’_

Smiling wryly, Zoro typed a reply. _‘No but some fucker tried to kill me.’_

The next text came speedily. _‘Bet u enjoyed that... #Like it rough ;p ’_

Shifting on the bus seat, Zoro smiled again; then typed a reply. _‘Got a problem with that?’_

This time the chef’s reply consisted of just an emoji rolling its eyes.

Zoro waited for a while, but no more messages landed. Tucking his phone in his pocket, he tried to find a position to sit in which minimised the nagging ache in his ribs. That done he gazed out the smeary bus window and watched the street go by.

It took the best part of forty minutes to bus and walk to Sanji’s apartment, with a quick detour into Ghin’s corner store to buy a six-pack of cold beer en route. Zoro also bought a litre of chilled water out the cooler: he cracked this open as he walked the rest of the way to the apartment block, sinking half of it in one go.

Reaching the entrance he thumbed the intercom button for Sanji’s apartment and waited, swigging more water.

The speaker crackled. _“That you?”_

“Yeah. Buzz me in.”

_“C’mon up. I’ll leave the door open.”_

Sanji’s apartment door was slightly ajar when Zoro reached it. He went inside and closed it behind him, heading through to the main room. Cooking smells reached him as he dumped his kendo gear on the floor and made for the kitchen, guessing that this would be where he’d find the chef.

Sanji was standing at a counter wearing an apron and busy at something, his back to the doorway. “Hey, moss-head.”

Zoro crossed the kitchen and stood right behind the chef, wrapping one arm round him. “Hi, shit cook.” He bent his head over his boyfriend’s shoulder and regarded the counter, which seemed to have a discouraging amount of green leafy stuff lying around on it. “Whatcha makin’ for dinner?”

“Right now I’m making green salad. Got gazpacho chilling in the fridge, and there’ll be chicken satay skewers with chilli noodles.” Sanji’s hands moved a knife swiftly against a chopping board, slicing a cucumber into thin slivers. Smiling, he half-turned his head and exchanged a kiss... Then his nose wrinkled. “Holy _crap_ , you reek.”

Zoro tightened his arm around the chef and pressed his head against the other man’s. “Soak it up, swirly. This is the smell of victory.”

“Yerk... Get away from me, you bum.” Sanji twisted free. “Go get a fucking shower before you taint the food.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zoro wandered to the fridge and stuck his six-pack in there, keeping one can back and cracking it open. He took a long swallow and walked to the doorway. “Hey. I won all my shiai.”

Sanji gave him a quick sidelong smile. “Cool. Tell me about it over dinner. After you’ve showered and you’re not a walking toxic waste spill.”

“Priss,” Zoro responded with a sardonic grin.

“If you want to eat, then get your sweaty ass the hell out of my kitchen.” Sanji sniffed, before turning back to his chopping board. 

Still grinning, Zoro wandered away into the apartment, taking another gulp of beer. He made for Sanji’s bedroom and dumped his bag on a chair, then headed for the bathroom.

The cool shower felt blissful on his heated sweaty skin. After lathering up and getting clean, Zoro took a few minutes to just stand in the streaming water, letting it sluice away some of the aftermath of his exertions at kendo.

Not all of the aftermath could be washed away, though. His head ached from the heavy-handed men attack, along with a bunch of other places: his bruised elbow and hand; the foot that had been stamped on; even his throat, which still felt tender from the tsuki strike. And when he lifted his arms to rub shower gel into his hair pain arrowed across his left side.

After towelling himself roughly dry Zoro stood by the mirror and inspected his various bruises; before lifting his left arm again, grimacing slightly at the spike of pain this produced. High on his left side there was already dark purple-red spreading under the skin, marking the place where Huesos had landed his misplaced _d_ ō strike. Zoro regarded it critically, then took an experimental deep breath.

_- Fuck._

That hurt, in a way he remembered from the last time he’d gotten ribs cracked. Letting out a more cautious breath through his nose, he turned away from the mirror.

Feeling better for having showered and starting to be hungry, Zoro headed to the bedroom and rummaged in his bag: pulled on a pair of cropped cargo pants and picked up a t-shirt, before deciding to stay bare-chested while the evening was still warm.

He chugged the last of his beer and walked back through to the main room. Sanji was sitting on the couch peering at something on his phone, a glass of white wine in his other hand.

“How long till we eat?”

“It’s ready when you are,” Sanji answered half-absently, eyes glued to his phone screen.

“Cool. Gonna get a refill. You want anything?”

Still without looking up the chef simply lifted his wine glass for an answer, indicating that he already had plenty. Zoro grunted an acknowledgement and detoured into the kitchen to get another beer.

As he returned to the main room, Sanji laid his phone down on the table and took a sip from his wine, eyes shutting. Letting out a sigh, the chef rolled his shoulders. “Hmhh... Feels good to have some downtime. Busy week.”

“Yeah.” Zoro wandered towards the couch, stretching his neck one way then the other and rubbing at it with one hand. “Won’t argue with that.”

“Hope this heatwave eases up soon. This week’s been purgatory.” Sanji opened his eyes and looked up at him. “Which is, I guess, why you’re walking around half-naked, you ape...” His eyes fixed on the swordsman’s chest, widening. “...Fucking _ hell!” _

Letting his hand fall, Zoro raised one eyebrow at his boyfriend. Sanji blinked, set down his glass of wine, and took a breath before gesturing at the swordsman’s left side. “That happened this afternoon?”

Zoro glanced down at the bruising on his ribs, then grunted an affirmative. “Took on a tough motherfucker, liked to throw his weight around.” He let one corner of his mouth pull upwards. “Didn’t stop me beating the sonofabitch.”

Sanji regarded him as though he was mentally defective. “He did that and you _kept fighting?_ Didn’t the referees call a time-out?”

“I didn’t ask for one.” Zoro shrugged, then wished he hadn’t when his ribs jabbed at him.

“Figures.” The chef was frowning now. “That looks pretty bad. You get it checked out by someone, after?”

“No point.” Shaking his head, Zoro sat down on the couch.

“You could have cracked ribs.” Sanji eyed the bruising, his brow furrowed.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Giving his boyfriend a quick grin, Zoro took another gulp of beer.

The chef looked totally unamused. “Seriously? Some asshole busts your ribs, and you just smirk and say ‘No big’?”

Zoro heard the edge in the other man’s tone. “Shit happens. You compete in martial arts, sometimes you get fucked up. Goes with the territory.”

“Great. So what happens if you can’t make it to work tomorrow? You gonna tell your boss at the gym you can’t come in ‘cause you got your ribs busted at kendo?”

“Don’t need to skip work. I’ll manage okay.”

“How the fuck are you gonna teach gym classes, banged up like that? You start heaving weights about, you’re just going to make it worse.”

“I’ll take it easy for a couple days.”

“Christ on a raft.” Sanji sounded exasperated. “Go see a fucking doctor in the morning, get checked out.”

“No point.” At the chef’s scowl, Zoro met his gaze. “Docs don’t do shit for busted ribs, anyway. Just tell you to take painkillers; wait for it to heal up. Don’t need to sit in a waiting room for a couple hours to be told what I already know.”

Sanji let out an irritated noise. “You going to tell them at work you need to take things easy?”

“They don’t need to know.”

“Right: wait till you’re coughing blood from a punctured lung before you clue them in,” the chef said sarcastically. “Dumbass...”

“Oi...” Zoro narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend. “Get off my case.”

“You seriously think you can just waltz into work at the gym and carry on like nothing’s happened?”

“The guys I work with won’t be a problem. And management wouldn’t fuckin’ notice if I dropped dead in there.” Zoro answered sourly, thinking of the hellish working conditions he’d endured all week.

“Really.” Sanji took a mouthful of wine, then plonked his glass down on the table. “I guarantee they’d notice if you broke yourself playing samurai, and couldn’t work for a week.”

Taking a swallow of his beer, the swordsman fixed his boyfriend with a level stare. “Don’t give a shit what they think.”

“You ought to. It’s not smart to piss your employers off.”

“So I don’t get an Employee of the Month award. Big deal.”

“No, you moron.” Sanji gave him an unimpressed look. “So maybe you wind up having to look for a new job, because you get fired.”

Zoro snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Reality check, moss-for-brains: in case you hadn’t noticed, the job market isn’t exactly awash with openings right now. Maybe think about that, next time you wade into some pissing contest at kendo. Crap, it’s not even like it was a tournament – you said it was just some friendly.” Sanji let out a snort. “If that was friendly, I’d hate to see what _unfriendly_ looks like.”

Feeling his hand clench on his can of beer, Zoro took a few seconds before replying. When he did, his voice came out hard. “Yeah, it wasn’t a tournament. But it wasn’t some pissing contest. I won a shiai against a guy who was a serious fucking challenge: made me up my game, which is exactly what I need right now.”

Sanji seemed about to make a retort; then caught himself: his lips pressing together into a straight line. There was a brief silence, while he reached for his wine glass again and took a sip, frowning down at the table.

At last Sanji’s eyes lifted back to the swordsman, no longer frowning but still sober-faced. “Okay. Point taken. I know kendo’s important to you. Just... maybe, think about priorities. Kendo isn’t going to pay your rent; or your medical bills if you get laid up.”

Zoro took a deliberately slow breath in, meeting the other man’s gaze. Knowing the chef wasn’t trying to pick a fight. “...I get it.”

Sanji studied him. A small, wry smile curved up the corners of his mouth. “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

The swordsman smiled too. “Yeah.”

“So spit it out, moss-head.”

“Kendo’s always gonna be a priority. No matter what other shit’s going down.” This had been true since he was fifteen years old. If he knew anything, Zoro knew this. In his bones.

“Uh huh.” After a moment Sanji acknowledged this with a nod, the wry smile still there.

The energy in the room felt like it had shifted. Zoro said nothing more, waiting for whatever was coming next. Which turned out to be Sanji letting out a slight sigh; then giving him a peace-making shrug. “Fuck it... Not trying to stir the shit, I’m just feeling... kinda scratchy, I guess. It’s been a long week.”

The swordsman assented with a short nod. “...Yeah.”

Sanji appeared to relent. “So... Kudos for winning your shiai, moss-head.”

“Thanks.”

“The other guy look in worse shape than you, after?”

Letting out a short laugh, Zoro shook his head. “Wasn’t about dishing it back to him. I won the points, that’s what matters.”

“Huh.” The chef cast an appraising eye over his multiple bruises. “There anywhere he _didn’t_ land one on you?”

Resting one hand on his crotch, Zoro smirked at his boyfriend. “Here’s still good.”

“Forget I asked.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go dish up dinner.”

As the chef started to rise Zoro snagged the back of his jeans and tugged him down onto the couch again, pulling his boyfriend towards him. “What’s the hurry?”

“Horndog.” Sanji didn’t exactly resist the swordsman’s embrace.

“Been a week.” Zoro bent his mouth to the chef’s neck and teased at it with tongue and then teeth.

“Miss me?” Sanji sounded like he was smirking.

For an answer Zoro moved his hand around to where he could give a strategic squeeze. “How about we skip dinner?”

“Mmh.” The other man let it happen for a couple of seconds... Then placed his own hand over the swordsman’s, and lifted it away. “Food’s ready. Later.” Standing, he gave Zoro a quick look. “And I better find you an ice pack.” He smirked. “I’ll leave it up to you to decide what portion of your anatomy you want to stick it on.”

They ate in the main room with the windows propped wide open, the first stirrings of cooler evening air just finding their way into the apartment. Sanji dished up the chilled gazpacho first, with garlic bread warm from the oven; followed it with the spicy chicken satay and noodles, paired with the green salad. Once dinner was over with they stayed there on the couch in the main room while evening light faded into dusk; Sanji sipping another glass of wine, and Zoro lying down with an ice pack the chef had fetched placed against his bruised ribs. He’d donned his t-shirt before they’d eaten – Sanji insisting he wasn’t going to serve dinner to a caveman – but had hitched it up to apply the towel-wrapped ice pack.

Sanji sat at one end of the couch, leaning back against Zoro’s legs and smoking a cigarette. A message from Nami had landed on his phone, a continuation of the conversation they’d been having before dinner. He read her latest snark and let out a snort of laughter. “Heh...”

“Something funny?” Zoro spoke without opening his eyes, from his prone position.

“Nami. Just telling me the latest crazy holiday request her clients have asked her to organise.”

“Like what?” 

“Bull running.” Sanji shook his head, grinning. “There’s this crazy fiesta in Spain where people run down a street in front of a bunch of pissed-off bulls that are going to be used for bull fights. Anyone can take part in it: so this batshit-crazy bunch of guys planning a stag holiday want to give it a whirl.”

“My money’s on the bulls.”

“Yeah. What a pack of fuckwits.” Sanji snorted again. “Sometimes Nami has to deal with some prize assholes.”

“Guess their cash is as good as anybody’s.”

“Hnh. Sanji grunted, typing into his phone. “Hey. You free July 8th, evening?”

“That a Saturday?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Cool. That’s when Nami wants to meet up for her birthday. Drinks at the Rip Off.” Sanji tapped his reply in the affirmative, adding _Looking forward to it chérie <3 xxx , _then set his phone aside. “Okay, done. 8th it is.”

Zoro let out an affirmative grunt. “You plan on getting her a gift?”

“Already have.” Sanji got to his feet. “I’ll show you...”

He crossed the room to his desk and fetched the tissue paper-wrapped parcel. As he returned he saw Zoro adjust the ice pack against his ribs and shift position slightly on the couch: the swordsman hitched a breath and Sanji saw a fleeting grimace pass across his face. Reaching the couch again, the chef sat down. “It bad?”

Zoro took in a more careful breath, his brows slightly drawn together. “...Nah.”

“You want some painkillers? Think I’ve got some codeine left over, from when I fucked up my back.”

“Ice pack’s fine.”

“Okay.” Sanji sat down again on the end of the couch, looking him over. “Huh... Those bruises are really coming on now, moss-head. You’re gonna look like a mugging victim by morning.” He leaned sideways and lightly nudged the swordsman’s arm on his good side with his own. “If this is what shape you’re in after winning, hate to see what you look like when you lose.”

“Not gonna see that any time soon.” Zoro gave him a cocky smirk.

“Right.” Sanji gave a wry smile. Carefully he unwrapped the tissue paper and revealed Nami’s present, holding it up to show the swordsman.

Zoro regarded the filigree necklace for a moment, then his gaze flicked up to the chef. “...Looks good.”

“There was a European market in town today, I found it there.” Sanji turned the necklace this way and that, showing it off. “I thought this was perfect for Nami. She’ll love it.”

“How much?”

Sanji slowly laid the necklace on the tissue paper, before wrapping it up again. Keeping his eyes on what he was doing, he answered quietly. “One-seven-five.”

“Hundred and seventy-five dollars?” Zoro’s eyebrows hiked up. “That’s some birthday present.”

Sanji felt defensiveness spring up inside him. “I want to give Nami something special.” He rose and crossed the room, replacing the wrapped necklace on his desk. “It’s not just for her birthday. It’s for all the help she’s given me with starting up my business, too. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

“...Uh huh.”

Sanji returned to the couch. Zoro regarded him, one hand rubbing the back of his head. “Think Nami’d want you to spend that kind of money, with your cashflow being how it is right now?”

Sanji was instantly riled. “I can afford to buy my best friend a special gift. The amount of work she’s done helping get _Bite Me_ up and running – my website, all that tech stuff, helping me write my business plan - I’d have had to pay someone else crazy money to do all that.”

“I guess.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to treat her to something really lovely. And she deserves it.”

Zoro nodded slowly. “Okay, cook.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Then Zoro said in neutral tones, “Gonna make my birthday gift look kinda cheap.”

“What are you getting her?”

The swordsman gave a wry grin. “Managed to finagle three months’ gym membership.”

Sanji favoured him with a sidelong look. “Tightwad.”

“She wanted it, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember... But, just for three months? That the best deal you could con out of your employers?”

“Worth seventy-five bucks,” Zoro countered. “And if she decides to keep coming after three months is up, I can probably get her a good deal for annual membership.”

“You’re a piece of work.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet that didn’t actually cost you _anything_.”

“Took me a half hour to charm it out of our admin manager. That was fuckin’ hard work.”

“Right.” Letting out a snort, the chef flicked the swordsman lightly on the arm. “You can pick up the drinks tab on July 8th, then.”

Grunting reluctant assent, Zoro nodded. “It an open invite?”

“You mean, can Luffy and the rest of the gang tag along?”

“Yeah.”

Sanji considered. “Don’t think Nami was planning to make it a big party-hearty night out. But yeah... Ask ‘em if they want to come.”

Zoro gave a shrug. “ ‘Kay, whatever.” 

After this the two of them were quiet for a while. Sanji finished his cigarette and his glass of wine, scrolling idly through food blogs on his phone, leaning back against his boyfriend’s legs. Enjoying the luxury of just being able to relax, feeling the evening breeze waft through the open window and cool the apartment.

A snore made him look sideways: Zoro appeared to have made use of his usual awesome ability to fall straight into fathoms-deep sleep. The swordsman’s head was pillowed on his left arm; his other arm lying loosely on the couch. Sanji’s gaze tracked to his right hand: the swordsman’s knuckles were bruised and swollen, as if he’d been in a fist fight.

_\- Shit happens. You compete in martial arts, sometimes you get fucked up._

The ice pack had slipped down off Zoro’s side, onto the couch. Where it wouldn’t be doing much good: but by now it had probably warmed up anyway, between the warm evening air and the furnace that was Zoro’s usual body temperature.

Sanji still felt rubbed up the wrong way from their earlier conversation. Seeing that godawful bruise had made him mad, who the _fuck_ was this kendo asshole who’d tried to cave in Sanji’s boyfriend’s ribs? And Zoro’s couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude had annoyed him even more.

_Maybe for him, it really isn’t that big of a deal._

Which was kind of a headfuck in itself. Who took damage like broken ribs, and acted like it was some minor ouchie?

That the swordsman was in pain was undeniable, but Sanji knew better than to nag him to take painkillers. Not just because of the whole stoic kick which was clearly Zoro’s thing, but because painkillers were, not to put too fine a point on it, drugs. And there was a big fucking difference between codeine and meth, but maybe if you were an addict that difference didn’t feel like one you could rely on.

_Shit. I wish I knew more about this stuff._

Even the word was a headfuck. It jarred Sanji even to think it, but _addict_ was a name Zoro had owned to. And one thing Sanji never did, was to deny the way someone chose to self-define themselves.

_I wonder if I could talk to Chopper about this, get some ideas for how to handle stuff that comes up?_

It was tempting... But a non-starter. Zoro had shared his past with Sanji, but that didn’t give the chef the right to broadcast it around their friends.

_Okay then, maybe I could talk about it with Ace. He already knows that Zoro used to get fucked up on shit._

That didn’t feel right either. That conversation he and Ace had had about Zoro back at Luffy’s birthday bash had explored the edges of this territory, but it had still felt borderline invasive.

_So who the fuck can I talk to?_

Normally when something was bothering him, Nami was his go-to refuge to talk and get advice: but he couldn’t tell her about any of this, for the same reasons he couldn’t ask Chopper.

_That just leaves one obvious person._

Zoro himself.

Sanji studied his boyfriend’s face, relaxed and open in sleep. Looking like everyone did when they were sleeping: unguarded, features softened. Sanji couldn’t reconcile who he was looking at with what he knew. That in the past Zoro was someone who had beaten people bloody for money, and had supposedly enjoyed doing it. That the swordsman had been an addict. Was _still_ an addict.

Ever since they’d had that conversation a month previous when Zoro had ‘fessed up to his past, Sanji had been trying to accommodate that knowledge within his world-view. Trying not to let it constantly filter in between them, warp the way they were with each other. Working at keeping those things Zoro had told him in the broad category of _That was then, this is now._

But the trouble with that strategy was, it didn’t entirely cut it. Because every time something came up that resonated with those troubling revelations, Sanji felt a slight wobble in his universe. A feeling of not quite trusting the ground he was standing on. Not quite knowing how to react. What he should say. What he was feeling. What _Zoro_ was feeling.

_Does he really think getting his ribs busted in a kendo match is okay?_

It seemed like it, from the way the swordsman had reacted.

_If you put yourself in situations where you get damaged, and don’t seek medical help afterwards, is that self harm?_

Sanji had no answer for that one. Letting out a slow breath, he tried to pull his thoughts back from that direction.

_Maybe I’m overthinking this. Kendo’s his thing, but that’s a whole different ballgame from those fucked-up fights he was in when he was younger. Same with the drugs: he told me he’s been clean for a couple years. I’ve got to trust him._

Zoro twitched, stirring in his sleep as if dreaming. His brows pulled together, then his eyes cracked open a little. “...Mhhh...”

Sanji brought a smile onto his face. “Hey there, snoozy.”

“...Hunhh.” The swordsman blinked, then rubbed his hand across his face. “Shit. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Maybe you needed the rest.”

Zoro yawned, then grimaced. “Ow. Fuck.” He groped for the ice pack, finally locating it wedged underneath his hip. “Damn. This thing’s defrosted.”

“Probably done all the good it’s going to do, moss-head. Give it here.” Sanji took it from him and stood up. “I’ll stick it back in the freezer. You want anything from the kitchen?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then how about we hit the sack? It’s getting late.”

For an answer, Zoro swung his legs off the couch and also stood up, camouflaging the wince that crossed his face with a quick grin. “Sounds good.”

In Sanji’s bedroom they undressed and got into bed, abandoning the quilt for a sheet in the summer night’s heat. For a while they just kissed, too warm to wrap around each other closely. Sanji grazed his way down the swordsman’s neck and shoulder, tasting its clean salt flavour: let his hand stroke down the sculpted planes of his boyfriend’s chest and stomach. His gaze drifted from Zoro’s shoulder down his arm, to where the skin was bruised dark at his elbow; lower still, to his swollen knuckles.

“Quit fretting, shit cook.” Zoro’s voice had a lazy edge of amusement to it.

“Who said I was fretting?” Sanji went with the joking mood. “Just wondering where else that crapfucker tattooed you.”

The swordsman’s hand reached out and tugged the chef towards him, so that their bodies aligned closer. “Forget it.” He pulled Sanji’s head down, claiming a long kiss.

It felt good to Sanji, to be kissing his lover. Like rain on parched ground. The taste of Zoro’s mouth, the feel of him, the smell of him. He wanted to push their bodies together, feel the hot hardening silken slide of the swordsman’s cock against his own, clench his hands on warm flesh. And the hands curled on his shoulder and his hip were pulling him in. So he went with them. Lost himself in the urgency of touch and breath and skin and heat.

Kissing became biting: nipping on Zoro’s lower lip, then tracking down his neck, tonguing the path of his pulse. Tasting the hollow above his collarbone; then going lower, stirring his nipple into hardened flesh. Kissing his way across the swordsman’s chest to do the same again on the other side, fastening on hard, hand curling round his body and pulling him closer.

“Ghh - ”

It was a short sound, hardly more than an exhalation: but as Zoro let it out Sanji felt the body underneath him twitch.

_Shit, his fucking side –_

Sanji’s hand let go as if he’d touched something red hot. He rocked back onto his knees, still straddling his lover but coming upright. “Fuck... Sorry.”

Zoro’s eyes, which had been creased shut, flicked open. “Uh?”

Sanji lifted his hands as if surrendering. “I forgot. You okay?”

The swordsman regarded him a moment, then his own hand came up and closed round Sanji’s wrist, tugging him back downwards. “Yeah. M’fine.”

Resisting the pull, the chef braced his other hand against the bed. “You sure you’re up to this right now?”

His boyfriend’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I’m fucking sure.” To emphasize his point he flexed his legs, grinding his hips up into Sanji’s.

Catching a breath at the contact, Sanji fixed his gaze on the other man. “I don’t want to wind up explaining to an E.R. nurse how I broke my boyfriend fucking him when he had busted ribs.”

“You worry too much, shit cook.” Zoro’s hand still held his wrist tightly: tugged it down again. “Had worse than this.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think.” The chef couldn’t extract his hand without losing his balance. He directed a frown down at the swordsman. “I told you before: I don’t like hurting people.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Zoro drew the chef’s hand against his upper chest, pressing it against the warm skin. Sanji’s fingers brushed against his hardened nipple, thumb resting against his diagonal scar. “You remember what I told you about this?”

Thoughts tumbled uncontrollably through Sanji’s head.

_\- Fought a guy with a sword_

_\- This fucking scar_

Zoro’s eyes were dark in the lamplight. His fingers gripping Sanji’s own, holding the hand steady. His voice low and rough-edged like a cat’s purr. “Lot of nerve endings firing there.” A slow curling up of the corners of his mouth. “Pain’s not always a bad thing.” And he curled his fingers, tightening his grip on Sanji’s hand against his chest. Holding it there.

Sanji took a slow breath in. Holding his boyfriend’s eyes with his own. Taking in that undeniable, provocative smile.

_I get it._

Feeling a wry but wicked answering smile coming onto his own face, the chef let out a small snort. “You total freak.”

“Don’t go all vanilla on me, love cook.”

“Figures you’d have a pain kink.” Sanji let his fingers and thumb caress Zoro’s nipple... Then close on it and give it a twist.

The swordsman let out a breath, but his smile deepened. “Heh... We’ve been fucking six months and you’ve only just figured that out?”

“Well, no, I had noticed certain masochistic tendencies.” Smirking, the chef tweaked his boyfriend’s nipple again. “Explains a lot.”

Zoro reached up with his other hand and curled it round the back of the chef’s head, pulling him downwards till their mouths met. Silencing him by the simple expedient of keeping their tongues occupied.

Sanji didn’t exactly resist. And when he finally got free enough to draw breath, he returned to exploring Zoro’s chest with his mouth, licking and sucking his way southwards. Dipping into the hollow of the swordsman’s navel and swirling his tongue there... Then following the happy trail down. Pushing Zoro’s thighs apart, lifting one leg over his shoulder and holding it there as he went down on his lover, taking him into his mouth and getting to work.

Strong fingers clenched on the top of his head: twisted into his hair. Sanji made an indeterminate noise, not exactly a growl because it was hard to vocalise with Zoro’s cock buried in his mouth. Brought his hand into the action too, curling his fingers round the swordsman’s length and stroking it slow and hard.

“Un _hh_ \- ”

The fingers in his hair tightened. Sanji felt heat spike inside him.

_You want to play rough, moss-head?_

He let his teeth scrape against skin: tightened his own grip.

_Don’t fuck with me._

The leg draped over his shoulder moved: he felt Zoro’s heel nudge against his shoulder blade, then press downwards. Pulling him closer. The grip in his hair slacken just enough, but not letting go.

_O-kay._

That little simmer of irritation waning but still there. Putting an edge on things. Releasing something.

Sanji lingered over his task. Taking his time. Sliding his mouth down to the base of Zoro’s cock: nuzzling at his balls. Taking his lover’s length deep into his mouth, then sucking on the tip. Dipping his tongue into the slit, laving the sensitive underside of the head. Moving his fingers back and forth, loosely circling.

He could feel the tension building up in the long thigh muscles spread either side of his head. Testingly he slid his other hand up to the taught stomach above him: felt the muscles there clench beneath his touch. He let his fingers curl, digging in with his nails and dragging them across the skin.

Zoro made a sound in his throat.

_Oh yeah._

The salt tang of precum met Sanji’s tongue. He gave Zoro’s cock one last lingering suck, then slowly drew off it with a wet _pop_ of his lips, shaking his head to dislodge the gripping fingers from his hair. Shrugging the swordsman’s leg off his shoulder, he pushed himself up along the body on the bed, coming to rest on his elbows and looking down into his lover’s heat-flushed face. “Heh... Nice view.”

Zoro’s mouth tightened slightly, the flush on his face deepening. “Dumbass.”

“That any way to talk to someone who just sucked your cock?” Sanji rocked his hips slightly, grinding their erections together. “You have no fucking manners whatsoever.”

“Job’s only half done.” The swordsman smirked. “Why’d you stop?”

“Oh...” Sanji bent his head down and negated the smirk with a forceful kiss. “Got a better idea.” He kissed his boyfriend again, on the neck this time: held the kiss and put on pressure with tongue and then teeth, intending to leave a mark. Felt Zoro arch his neck back, heard him let out a soft grunt. And a moment later push up with his hips, seeking more friction where it mattered most.

Sanji nipped hard at the warm skin beneath his mouth. “You. Are such. A fucking pervert.”

An outbreath that was half laugh, half protest, purred against his ear. “Takes one to know one, shitty cook.”

Pushing himself up a little on his arms, Sanji let one hand travel down the swordsman’s chest, following the trajectory of his scar. Zagged across his abs to his left side. Then, lighter than a breath, trailed his fingers up his ribs. Carefully tracing the edges of the bruise that was forming there, sketching its boundaries. Listening to the way Zoro’s breath caught, then steadied. Watching his face.

When Sanji’s fingers reached the hollow under the swordsman’s arm he let them travel back to his chest, circling around his nipple; then stilled his hand there. “Okay, craphead. This is how this is gonna go.”

Brows drew together into a frown, over dark eyes looking back up at him. And the chef gave a dangerous smile. “You’re in no shape to top. So guess what: you get to lie there while I fuck you into submission. Sound like a plan?”

One corner of Zoro’s mouth hiked up. “In your dreams, swirly.”

“What’s the problem? If you want it rough, I can oblige.” Sanji pinched the nipple between finger and thumb and gave it a hard twist. “But I don’t want to be distracted by wondering if you’re about to puncture a lung, so you stay right where you are.” He pushed himself up on his hands and reached across to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer and extracting lube and a condom.

Zoro muttered something surly under his breath, then grabbed a pillow and wedged it under his shoulders. “Fine.”

Sanji didn’t spend overmuch time on prep, partly because they were both ready to get down to the main event, but also because, well, _pain kink,_ right?

Which was all well and good: but when he lined up and started to push in, Zoro was so fucking tight they both froze for a second.

“You – okay?” Sanji had his hands on Zoro’s ass and was trying to control his own breathing. Zoro’s hands were fisted in the sheet.

“Yeah - ” The swordsman’s eyes were shut, a V furrowed between his brows. Then he let out a breath: opened his eyes and gave the chef a shark-like grin. “Get on with it, cook.”

“Easier said than done,” Sanji said between gritted teeth, but obliged anyway.

“H _hn_.”

And then the chef was all the way in that tight heat. For maybe five heartbeats they both held there, breathing into it. Then one of Zoro’s hands released its grip on the bed and lifted to Sanji’s side. Drawing him down into a hard kiss. Before murmuring into his ear, “Better do what you promised, cook.”

Their fucking was raw and hot and needy, no finesse whatsoever, just pure animal screwing. And it lit up Sanji’s nervous system like a firework. Maybe it was the release he needed after a long stressful week working in the heat; whatever the reason, he lost himself in it.

At one point he slung one arm under the crook of Zoro’s right knee, hoisting the swordsman’s leg against his shoulder: angled his thrusts purposefully, driving home. Hearing the harsh urgent rhythm of Zoro’s breath, noises that sounded like pleasure and pain. Both of them slick with sweat, sticking to the sheets, feeling that edge approaching.

Zoro’s hand found his and Sanji slid his fingers between the swordsman’s, clenching tight and bearing down on it, pressing their hands into the bed. His thrusts getting faster, harder now. Everything building like a thundercloud in a hot dry summer sky.

_Ah god Gonna come_

Shaking his hand loose from Zoro’s on the bed, Sanji reached down between them and gripped his boyfriend’s cock: pumped it loosely in his fist as he continued to thrust hard.

“Nnhh – _ahh!”_ Zoro jolted beneath him, shivering. Warm cum spilled over Sanji’s fingers as he stroked them back and forth, watching the sudden graceful arch of Zoro’s neck as his head twisted back against the bed. Keeping his own hand moving so he could enjoy the feeling of Zoro’s heat clenching down around his cock, as each successive jolt ran through the swordsman’s body. And then fucking hard and fast into that heat as his own climax hit and burned through like a comet, blinding him and shaking him with fire.

It was a while before Sanji came all the way back. To both of them lying tangled together in sweat-damp sheets, his head resting against Zoro’s shoulder. The _thud-thud, thud-thud_ of the swordsman’s heartbeat, gradually slowing in his ear.

He shifted, and they both let out a breath: before Sanji raised up on his hands and looked down into the face below him. “Eh...” Words eluded him, so he delivered a kiss instead.

Zoro kissed him back. When Sanji drew back a little, the swordsman lifted one corner of his mouth in a lazy smile. “...Hhm.”

The low sound could have meant anything, but the chef interpreted it as contentment. Smiling in return, he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Let his other hand rest on his boyfriend’s thigh, fingers stroking slowly there. “...You okay?” At the brief lift of Zoro’s eyebrow, the chef clarified. “Your ribs, moss-head.”

“Fine,” Zoro grunted.

Sanji gazed at him for a few seconds, then let out a slight huff of laughter. “Like you’d tell me if they weren’t.”

“Really wasn’t focussing on my ribs.” Zoro reached up and took a lock of the chef’s hair between his fingers, giving it a brief tug.

“Ow.” Sanji jerked his head away, twitching his hair free. “Shitty moss.”

Afterwards they lay on top of the covers with only a sheet drawn up to their waists, drifting from afterglow into sleep.

Zoro went under first, unsurprisingly. Sanji lay in the dark listening to his boyfriend breathe in and out, regular as surf on a shore. Feeling the cooler air of the summer night playing over his own skin. He felt good: heavy and relaxed, temporarily unmoored from the cares of his daily life. All he had to do right here and now was lie beside his lover and fall into the arms of sleep. Nothing more was required of him.

Letting out a long, slow breath, he did just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's quite a lot of technical kendo terms in this chapter: if you haven't already read I Like Your Friends (earlier part of this series) you might want to quickly read chapters 2 & 3 of that, there's a lot of explanation of kendo terminology and rules. Here's the link if you're so inclined: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497164/chapters/14915527#workskin
> 
> I've made the decision not to put all the Japanese kendo terms into italics, because it would just be too much. But if you want a quick kendo term glossary, here 'tis:
> 
> \- shinpan = kendo referees (always 3 of them observing a shiai)  
> \- zanshin = correct posture after executing a kendo strike  
> \- tenouchi = technique when delivering strikes so your attack is firm but controlled, not too heavy-handed  
> \- tare = flaps of armour which protect your dangly bits (if you're male): also where the competitor's name is written  
> \- tsuki dare = legitimate kendo strike where you hit the armour covering someone's throat  
> \- deashibarai = kicking someone's feet out from under them (usually frowned on in kendo)  
> \- men, kote, dō = the 3 main target areas for legit kendo strikes (plus tsuki)  
> \- yuko datotsu = having the right combination of things to make a valid kendo strike (accurate targeting, good technique, strong spirit, correct posture, expressing zanshin)  
> \- tsuba = round disk between shinai hilt and 'blade'  
> \- mukae-suki = targeting your opponent's throat armour (tsuki) with a strike when they are moving towards you. Supposed to be a technique only used by higher level kendōka because of the risk of serious injury.  
> \- tai-atari = using your body to collide with your opponent, to push them off balance or knock them down  
> \- hansoku = foul  
> \- kigurai = confidence, fearlessness, grace
> 
> The whole debate around how brutal you're allowed to be in kendo matches is one is played out on the internet, as well as in dojos. As I've mentioned in notes for earlier parts of AWC, some schools of kendo (notably Japanese police) seem to follow the 'whatever it takes to put the other guy down' approach. The Wani Dojo sensei is of that ilk.
> 
> Thanks as ever for reading, and leaving kudos, and commenting. I'll keep updating regularly, when my schedule allows. <3 WW


	6. If You Can't Stand The Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro took a swig of coffee, then rested the mug on the bedclothes over his lap. “You’re hella busy weekends, lately.”
> 
> “I don’t exactly have a choice.” The chef looked instantly nettled. “Income from the stall’s down, I’ve got bills to pay. Without these weekend catering jobs I’d be fucked.”
> 
> “Uh huh.” The swordsman knew this was true. “But you’re gonna ease up sometime, right?”
> 
> Sanji gave him a steady look. “Being a chef means you work antisocial hours, it comes with the territory. Evenings, weekends, whatever. That’s just how it is.” A small frown pulled his brows together. “I told you that, a while back. I can’t do anything about it, moss-head. I want to make a go of this business: long hours are just part of the deal.”

* * *

_If you can’t stand the heat  
Get out the kitchen_

_\- Starfire_

* * *

“Excuse me, are you closed?”

Sanji almost dropped his cigarette, turning quickly to see an apologetic-looking Asian couple hovering at the side of _Bite Me_.

Giving them both a friendly beam, he simultaneously let his smoke fall to the ground and trod it underfoot. “No, I’m still open and serving food – just taking a quick break! Apologies.” He gestured towards the front of the stall, and ducked back inside.

The couple approached and regarded the menu studiously, before looking at him. The woman asked hesitantly, “Could we have the _poh pia tod_?”

“Sure. I’ve got vegetarian with tofu, or chicken. Would you like them with the sweet chilli sauce separate, or drizzled on top?”

“Tofu, please. Sauce on top.” The woman gave him a shy smile.

“Coming right up.” Sanji cranked up the heat under his deep-fryer before opening the freezer and taking out the lidded tub that held the pre-made little spring rolls. Once the oil was up to temperature it took only a few minutes to fry the _poh pia tod_ till they were crisp and golden-brown: he let them drain for a minute before loading them into serving containers, drizzling on a generous amount of sweet chilli sauce and finally sprinkling both portions with a garnish of finely-sliced spring onion and fresh basil. He placed both portions on the counter, with a smile. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” The couple nodded their appreciation, before giving him their money and trying their food with expressions of delight. The woman gave Sanji a happy look. “Mmm, so good! Tastes like home. This was my favourite thing to buy when we lived in Phuket City.”

“Beautiful place to live.”

“You’ve visited there?” asked the man.

Sanji shook his head. “I wish. No: I’ve got a friend works in travel, she’s organised tours for folks in Thailand. I’ve seen pictures.”

“Ah, yes.” The man nodded. “We both worked as translators on tours, for a while. Holidays are big business.”

“I bet. You work here now?”

“Yes. I test software, as a bilingual IT engineer.” The man looked at his girlfriend, who answered on her own behalf.

“I still work as a translator. But I’m studying to qualify as a practitioner in _nuat phaen boran_ , Thai bodywork. I want to set up my own business.”

“Good luck with that. I’ve got a friend who does something similar,” Sanji replied. “He certainly never seems short of clients.”

“That’s good to know.” The woman gave him another of her shy smiles. “And thank you again for the food.”

“You’re welcome. _Bon appétit_.”

As the couple wandered away down the street with their food, Sanji leaned both arms on the counter and watched them go.

_Nice._

He’d been offering the small Thai-style spring rolls on his menu for a few weeks now: they were easy enough to make and fairly economical too, because he could fill them with pretty much anything and batch-freeze them, so there was little or no wastage. They were good sellers too, even in the hot summer weather. And now he’d had an official seal of approval, from an actual Thai couple.

Turning away from the counter with a smile, he reached for the cafetière that he’d brewed a little while ago and poured himself a mug of coffee. The original plan had been to enjoy it with his cigarette outside the stall, until the Thai customers had come along. Not that this had been a bad thing: he needed all the custom he could get.

Two weeks further on and almost at the end of June, business was still worryingly slow. He was getting passing trade and local workers on lunch breaks, but the lack of students had made a significant dent in his customer base. Sanji was grateful that he’d had the student uptake in the first place, but now he was having to scheme like crazy to plug that income gap for the next two months. He’d begun multi-tasking: bringing his laptop in to _Bite Me_ to work at admin and marketing when things were slow at the stall, chasing weekend catering work. On top of that he’d been forced to look at ways he could try to cut his running costs... Although this was easier to think about than to actually do.

The cost of raw ingredients was an ongoing headache. Projected food costs had been factored in to his business plan: but what he hadn’t been able to allow for was the way almost all foodstuffs were becoming more expensive, on an almost weekly basis. Something to do with a combination of poor yields for certain crops, general inflation, and massive increases in tariffs on imports as world leaders indulged in a pissing contest to see who could screw the other guy’s economy the fastest. Exactly none of which was under Sanji’s control.

When he and Nami had put together _Bite Me’_ s business plan all those months ago, she’d told him not to worry overmuch about being creative with his accounting to secure his bank loan. But now _Bite Me_ was a going concern, those comfortingly optimistic projected numbers in spreadsheets had been replaced by real ones. Namely, the sight of his actual bank balance going southwards at an alarming rate.

Nami had told him to expect his running costs to be high during this initial period of set-up and establishing his business. Sanji kept reminding himself of this... But that didn’t take away the stress of feeling that _Bite Me_ didn’t appear, as yet, to be making him anything like a decent income. Every week he religiously did his accounts, mindful of Nami’s advice to keep on top of these on a regular basis. And after the initial high when he’d first opened his food stall and got a small but steady increase in people trying his food, things had begun to level off... and now they were starting to slump. Each time Sanji entered his most recent set of figures into the spreadsheets, he hoped for a result that looked more encouraging. And each time the final figure in the column showed his profits delivering not quite enough.

Sanji was used to living on a budget. Temping hadn’t exactly brought him in the big bucks. But Bite Me was a whole different ball game. It wasn’t just his own money he had to take responsibility for, now: Zeff’s name on the bank loan paperwork was a sword of Damocles hanging over Sanji’s head, and one that he was determined to keep from falling.

Doing his accounts was probably Sanji’s least favourite part of this whole deal, but it did give him a stimulus to keep on track. Customer numbers at _Bite Me_ taking a seasonal dip over the summer vacation was something he couldn’t change, but the weekend catering work as a supplemental income stream was gradually building up. Initially only getting catering customers from the street stall, Sanji was starting to get bookings via recommendations and his website. Nami had helped him set up a party catering page, complete with online enquiry forms that potential clients could complete to indicate food choices, numbers required to be catered for, and stuff like food allergies and dietary preferences.

This was where Sanji turned to now. Activating his laptop from sleep mode where it sat on a back shelf, well out of the way of splashes and heat, he opened his emails and checked to see if there were any new booking enquiries. There weren’t; but there was a new email from the customer he was catering for at the weekend. With slight trepidation he opened it, hoping there hadn’t been any more last-minute changes.

The email’s tone was brisk.

_‘Hi, Sanji: just touching base w/you to check you have all our requirements covered for Kimberley’s bday party Sunday? Now expecting 15 party guests, confirmed 3 vegetarian, 4 vegan, 2 gluten free, 1 kiwi allergy, 1 lactose-intolerant. Menu choices as before, with addition of vegan sushi platter and fruit kebabs. Still expecting you 11am to deliver and set up, birthday guests eating at 12.30pm. Please confirm. Thx, Lorraine.’_

Taking a gulp of coffee, Sanji frowned at the laptop screen.

_One lactose-intolerant, and four vegans? What the fuck’s the difference? They’re both dairy-free, aren’t they?_

He clicked on the folder on his laptop that held his booking spreadsheets: checked the requirements for this teen girl’s birthday party. He had a list of thirteen names, with ticks against the dietary requirements for each one. No-one on this list had lactose intolerance, which presumably meant it was one of the two new guests.

He quickly typed an email reply.

_‘Hi, Lorraine. All good for Sunday, thank you for the update. No problem catering for two extra guests and adding in the vegan sushi platter and fruit kebabs: a $75 supplemental cost for these will apply. Can you give me the names and dietary requirements of your two extra guests? Delivery time as agreed, looking forward to helping Kimberley celebrate her very special day. Best regards, Sanji.’_

He sent this, then checked the rest of his emails. While he was doing so another message blipped into his Inbox from Lorraine.

_‘Extra guests are Suzi Cho (lactose-intolerant), and Jake Coen (vegan). Could be more guests on the day, will msg again if they get back to me.’_

Sanji typed a polite affirmative, and let out a sigh. This particular teen birthday party had so far generated something in the region of twenty email exchanges, each one necessitating either a menu change or recalculation of costings. Lorraine had also displayed an avidity for haggling down the price that had almost made Sanji regret taking the job on.

_Beggars can’t be choosers._

Not that he was a beggar, things weren’t that fucking dire, but he definitely wasn’t in a position to be turning down work. Till things took an upturn at _Bite Me_ , the catering jobs would help keep the wolf from the door.

He worked his way through his other emails: invoices from wholesale suppliers, notifications of comments on his food blog, half a dozen spammers offering him guaranteed ways to make his business website leap to the top of search engine ratings. The usual traffic, which he dealt with in between serving the occasional customer seeking a quick snack or a chilled smoothie.

He was frowning at a contentious email from one of his food suppliers – they’d fucked up on an order and were now arguing about exactly how much they owed him in credit – when a woman’s voice reached him from the front of the stall.

“You look as though you’re busy.”

Sanji turned away from his laptop, to see Robin standing smiling at him over the counter. He closed the laptop with a snap, stepping across and returning her smile. “Never too busy to attend to a beautiful lady.”

Robin tilted her head slightly, her smile quirking with amusement. “Indeed.”

Sanji gestured grandly at the entirety of his stall. “What can I offer to cool you on this warm summer’s day, mademoiselle? Iced latte? Rose kulfi? Kiwi smoothie?”

Tapping one forefinger slowly against her lips, Robin considered. “Rose kulfi sounds delightful.”

“Coming right up.” Sanji stepped over to the freezer and extracted the kulfi he’d made at the start of the week. Carefully he scooped out curls of the delicately pink-hued Indian ice cream; arranged them in a paper ice cream cup and topped the dessert with a generous sprinkling of ground cardamom and chopped pistachios; before presenting it with a flourish to Robin. _“_ _Et viola:_ _bon appétit.”_

 _“_ _Shukriyaa_ _,”_ Robin responded, pressing her hands together against her chest and nodding her head in a quick bow of thanks. Then she picked up the ice cream and tasted a small spoonful. “Mmm. Heavenly.”

“I’m trying a new flavour. The pistachio and mango kulfi sell okay, but I thought this would be more, well... subtle. Does it work?”

“Absolutely.” Robin savoured another pink-blushed spoonful. “The rose flavour is just enough, not too overwhelming. It’s very refreshing.”

Sanji leaned on the counter, beaming at her. “I used rose essence instead of rose syrup, so it wouldn’t be too sweet. I found some on a stall in a European market, a couple of weeks ago.”

“Ah, yes: I dropped by there myself, on Saturday afternoon.” Robin nodded. “So many delicious things there to try... It must have been a treat for you, as a chef.”

“Bliss,” Sanji agreed, grinning. “Fantastic authentic foods from around the European continent: top-quality ingredients, traditional recipes...”

Robin regarded him with an understanding smile. “What was the best thing you sampled there?”

That was an easy thing to answer, but Sanji still found himself hesitating a little. “Well... I found this _pâtissier_ , nice funny little guy in glasses. He had a stall with pastries, cakes, all kinds of southern French traditional stuff. Did you see him?”

The tall college professor nodded. “I think so. I didn’t try any of his wares, unfortunately. It sounds as though you did?”

“He had these biscuits on his stall, _bouchons de Languedoc_... Not really fancy or anything like that, they’re basically just big cookies made with honey and pine nuts... But they were just. Wow.” He gestured with one hand. “When he gave me a taste of one, it was like he gave me a piece of my childhood. They just tasted _perfect_. Exactly how I remember them.”

Robin looked at him for a moment, her head tipping slightly to the side again as if she was appraising what he said. As if something in his tone or words had told her just how significant that experience had been. “A special memory, I think.”

“Yeah.” Sanji suddenly felt as if her dark eyes were looking inside him. As if he was revealing far more than he’d meant to. It flustered him: he felt himself start to blush. Reaching for a cloth he wiped at the counter between them, dropping his gaze. “Yeah, good memories.”

“How very Proustian.” Robin’s voice was light, cheerful. Almost as if she was trying to soften the intensity of the moment that had just occurred. “It should have been a _petite madeleine_ _.”_

“That’s what I thought, too.” The chef recovered enough to meet her gaze again. The professor took another spoonful of rose kulfi, and turned her gaze away towards the street. Giving him space, it felt like.

After a moment or two, Sanji felt it was safe to change to conversation’s direction. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you till late summer. With college being on break and all.”

Turning back to him, Robin lifted her eyebrows slightly. “Oh, the students get time away from their studies. But we academics are still hard at work. Marking end of term papers, planning next semester’s lectures, running summer school classes... I’m still busy.”

“I know the feeling.” Sanji gave a wry smile.

She gestured towards his laptop at the back of the stall. “Keeping on top of your paperwork?”

“That’s the plan. It’s been quieter lately with customers, but at least I can deal with some of my emails and accounts.”

“And write your food blog?”

“Yeah... Although I don’t think I’ve got much of a following for that yet.”

Robin smiled. “I read it.” At his curious look, her smile widened. “That surprises you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sanji felt curiously flustered. “I mean, it’s just me talking about food that I like cooking. It’s not exactly riveting stuff.”

“I like the way you link stories to food.” Having finished her kulfi Robin set the empty dish down on the counter: leaned one elbow on there. “Every dish you write about, you find a way to tell a story about someone who taught you how to cook it, or a place where you first ate it. It’s fascinating.”

The chef felt a blush threatening to take over his face for a second time. “I’m just a blogger - it’s not like I’m a serious writer or anything, like you.”

Robin raised one eyebrow. “A writer is simply someone who writes.” She fixed him with those dark eyes. “You have stories to tell. Whether one person is reading them, or a thousand: does it matter?”

Sanji considered this. “I guess it doesn’t... Unless you’re counting website hits.”

“Well, that’s a whole other topic.” A small frown dinted between Robin’s brows. “Unfortunately these days, those who publish untruths can usually attract a far bigger audience than those who write from a place of facts. I’m not a fan of the current habit of judging a story’s worth by how many people have tweeted about it.”

“Fake news, you mean?”

Robin’s mouth twisted. “That’s another thing I really dislike. Orwellian newspeak. If you don’t like an inconvenient truth, call it fake news. If someone tries to challenge your actions, deny everything. Or twist facts to your own purposes.” She gave a short shake of her head. “William Blake had it right.” At Sanji’s quizzical look, she elaborated. “ ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent / Beats all the lies you can invent.’ ”

Letting out a short huff of laughter, Sanji nodded wryly. “Depressingly true.”

Robin looked away, out onto the busy street. “I don’t mean to be depressing. But there’re so many people out there busily living their lives, making decisions about what to buy and what to invest in and whom to vote for... And so few of them ever really make an effort to get to the truth of things. They believe what their favourite TV network or radio talk show host tells them, and think and act accordingly... because what they see or hear fits comfortably with their beliefs. If anything challenges them or makes them feel uncomfortable, they tune it out. Or try to shut it down.”

“Isn’t that human nature?” Sanji didn’t disagree, but he also didn’t like to see this lovely woman looking cast down.

“It’s human nature to learn. To try new things. To evolve. To grow.” Robin shook her head. “If people close themselves off from whatever they define as ‘the other’, if they deny it and suppress it and refuse to allow its existence, their lives become narrow and filled with fear.” She turned her head back to him and gave him a fleeting smile. “I’ve studied a great deal of history. I’ve noticed that empires which rely on raising armies and building walls to keep them safe, are doomed to fail. Spectacularly, in most cases.”

“So what’s the solution?”

Robin shrugged. “Education. Honest communication, listening to other people’s life experiences. And sound investigative journalism: ‘the pen is mightier than the sword.’ The reason I write my blog is because as long as there are still intelligent people writing true things, and other people who read what they’ve written, I remain optimistic.” A wicked glint came into her eyes. “And employed.”

Sanji’s conversation with Robin made for a nice distraction in his working day: but all too soon after finishing her dessert the professor checked her wristwatch and made a face. “Unfortunately I have to go. I have thirty essays on _Comparative Analyses in Neoinstutionalism_ to grade.”

“That sounds like a task and a half.” Sanji grimaced in sympathy.

“Shaping the youth of today into the political leaders of tomorrow is an arduous undertaking.” Robin said this dryly. “Especially when the majority of them appear to have gleaned most of their political understanding from Wikipedia. Thank you for the delicious kulfi.”

“My absolute pleasure.” Sanji nodded goodbye as the Robin settled her broad-brimmed white sunhat to shade her eyes; adjusted the open collar of her lavender linen shirt; and donned a pair of sunglasses before walking purposefully away down the street.

*********

Friday night, Zoro stayed over at Sanji’s place. After another long, hot week both were tired: Zoro slept in late on the Saturday, rousing only when he was nudged firmly on the shoulder.

Opening his eyes he blinked sleep away and gazed up at his boyfriend. “...Mhh.”

“And a good morning to you too.” Sanji brought a steaming mug into view. “Coffee here. You gonna get your ass out of bed before noon?”

Pushing himself up to sit back against the headboard, Zoro took the mug and inhaled caffeine fumes. “Time’s it now?”

“Half-eleven.” Sanji was wearing a t-shirt and gym shorts, and looked indecently awake.

“...Huh.” Zoro rubbed a hand across his face, then tried a mouthful of the black coffee: strong and still piping hot. “You got plans or something?”

“Thought we could go for a run in the park. Buy some lunch, try out that new café there.”

Taking a gulp of coffee, Zoro suppressed a yawn. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

The chef gave him a wry look. “Wow. Try to contain your enthusiasm.”

“Just fuckin’ woke up, shit cook. Give me a moment.” Zoro took another mouthful of black coffee, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “You been up awhile?”

Sanji nodded. “Yeah, woke up early. I’ve been doing my food prep for tomorrow’s job.”

The swordsman grunted. “That mean you’ll be cooking this evening too?”

“No, I’ve got a lot done this morning. They chose a lot of elaborate dishes for their party menu, things that take a while to put together. Sushi, tapas, meze, fruit kebabs... Basically a bunch of fiddly stuff.” Sanji shrugged. “I had to get most of the prep done today, I’ve got to have it ready to deliver for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Zoro took another swig of coffee, then rested the mug on the bedclothes over his lap. “You’re hella busy weekends, lately.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice.” The chef looked instantly nettled. “Income from the stall’s down, I’ve got bills to pay. Without these weekend catering jobs I’d be fucked.”

“Uh huh.” The swordsman knew this was true. “But you’re gonna ease up sometime, right?”

Sanji gave him a steady look. “Being a chef means you work antisocial hours, it comes with the territory. Evenings, weekends, whatever. That’s just how it is.” A small frown pulled his brows together. “I told you that, a while back. I can’t do anything about it, moss-head. I want to make a go of this business: long hours are just part of the deal.”

Zoro gave a nod of assent. But privately doubted that catering for a teen birthday party warranted the chef sacrificing half his weekend.

Sanji let out a small sigh, then brought a smile onto his face. “Anyway, I’m done working for now. Get your ass up and dressed, and we can go enjoy some fresh air and lunch in the park.”

By the time they’d got out the apartment and run together to the park’s tree-shaded green space, it was early afternoon. They finished off their run with their customary reps at the outdoor gym equipment, before walking to the new café in the park’s centre.

As they drew near the open space, Sanji let out a _tchh_ of annoyance. “Fuck: it looks busy.”

The dozen or so tables in front of the café’s frontage were mostly occupied; Zoro scanned them for one which looked free. “Yeah.”

At almost the same moment, a whoop reached them. “Zoro! Sanji!”

A figure wearing a straw hat leaped up at one of the occupied tables and waved its arms enthusiastically, beaming a wide grin across the space at them. “Over here, guys! Come sit with us!”

“What the fuck.” Sanji blinked, then grinned too. “Hey, Luffy.”

The younger man beckoned them over with windmilling arms. “This is great! Did you guys just get here? We ordered already. They do epic eight-ounce burgers with cheese and bacon here, it’s so cool!”

Beside Luffy, the lanky figure of Usopp saluted the chef and swordsman as they reached the table. “Hey, dudes. Good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Sanji sat down, smiling.

“This is awesome you turning up here,” Luffy enthused. “I was gonna take a picture of my burger and Instagram it to you, but now you can see it in real life.”

Zoro grunted, picking up the menu. “Who the fuck takes pictures of what they’re eating?”

The other three at the table looked at him. Sanji rolled his eyes, then shook his head at Usopp and Luffy. “I apologise for him. It’s like social media totally passed him by.”

“Frikkin waste of time,” Zoro grunted. “Half the world taking pictures of the other half and nobody gives a shit about any of it.”

“Ignore him. He just got out the wrong side of bed this morning.” Sanji plucked the menu out of his boyfriend’s hands and began studying it. “Hmm... Not a bad selection.”

“I was reading that,” Zoro pointed out.

“Why bother? You’re just gonna order a burger, right?” Sanji gave him a smirk. “Oh, nice: they do a pasta primavera salad with goat’s cheese... I’ll try that. What have you gone for, Usopp?”

“Sweet potato wedges with jerk chicken.” The artist gave a sheepish grin. “Gotta get my spice on.”

Zoro reclaimed the menu from the chef, and looked down the list of foods. “They sell beer here?”

Letting out a snort, Sanji folded his arms on the table. “Oh, right. I should’ve guessed that’d be your priority.”

Tossing the menu down, Zoro leaned back in his chair. “You order your fancy food, shit cook: I’ll order what I want.” 

With the café being busy, they had to wait a while for their meals. Luffy kept them entertained with stories of his adventures in his new summer camp counsellor job, while Usopp pulled out his sketchbook and began pencilling drawings of people on nearby tables.

“...So this kid gets fifteen marshmallows in his mouth, and thinks he’s the chubby bunnies winner.”

“Fif _teen?”_ Sanji sounded incredulous.

“I know! Like, no way is fifteen marshmallows a winning score, right?” Luffy leaned over the table. “I told him to just sit there and watch me show him how it’s done: and guess what?”

“You beat him.” Zoro was confident he knew where this story was going.

“Totally!” Luffy beamed. “I got twenty of ‘em in my mouth, and I could still talk.”

“No shit,” the swordsman responded dryly.

“The kid tried to beat me, but he wound up barfing marshmallows all over the ground.”

Sanji looked appalled. “That’s disgusting.”

“It was kinda funny.”

The chef raised his eyebrows, and glanced sideways at his boyfriend. Picking up the disapproval vibes, Zoro elected not to make any further comment. After a moment’s pause, Sanji changed the topic. “Did Zoro ask you guys about coming out to celebrate Nami’s birthday?”

“Uh?” Luffy glanced at Zoro, looking quizzical.

The swordsman gave a momentary grimace. “Shit.”

Sanji gave him a level look. “You forgot.”

Zoro rubbed the back of his head. “...Yeah. Sorry.”

“Algae for brains.” Sanji shook his head, before looking at Luffy and Usopp. “Next Saturday night: we’re meeting at the Rip Off, eight-thirty. Maybe going on to a club after.”

Looking regretful, Luffy propped his chin on his hand. “Awww... Gonna be away that whole weekend. Ace and Marco are gigging at FlameFest, they got us free tickets.”

Usopp spread his hands apologetically. “Really sorry to miss Nami’s birthday... F’it hadn’t been that weekend, I’d be there for sure: but we’ve been scheming this FlameFest shindig for weeks. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get some photos of all that fire action. Gonna draw ‘em up into some cool artwork.” He looked contrite.

The chef was quiet for a moment; then he gave a small smile, and shook his head. “Okay. No big deal.”

“Is Nami’s actual birthday on the Saturday?” asked Usopp.

“No: it’s this Monday.”

“Ah, right.” Usopp gave a thumbs-up. “I’ll message her. And hey!” His face brightened. “I’ve got a the perfect gift... I’ve almost finished a new painting, just needs framing. Think Nami’d like it as a present?”

“Giving her a piece of your art?” Sanji’s face also perked up. “That would be cool. What’s it of?”

Usopp pulled his phone out of his pocket and flicked his finger across the screen to bring up an image. “Take a look.” He showed the image to the chef, then tilted the screen so that Zoro could see the painting. It was Earth viewed from space: the curve of the planet vivid blue with oceans, patterned with continents, laced with clouds; and beyond it the dark starry infinity of the universe.

“That’s amazing.” Sanji smiled. “Nami will love it.”

Usopp beamed too. “She organises those tours all over the world for people, so now she can have a world of her own to hang on the wall. Maybe one day she’ll even wind up organising off-world trips for tourists into space!”

Their food arrived and the four friends fell to.

“Whad’I tell ya?” Luffy declaimed this through a mouthful of meat, holding up his burger to demonstrate its largeness. _“_ _Epic.”_

“Nghh, gross. Eat, _then_ talk.” Sanji lifted one hand to shield himself from the view of half-masticated beef.

“Wanna try some?” Luffy offered his burger. “It’s great.”

“I’m okay with this.” The chef indicated his bowl of pasta salad with his fork. “And yeah: it is good.”

Across the table, Usopp fanned his mouth. “Whoa. They must have a Jamaican chef. That is _seriously_ jerked chicken.”

“Too much?” asked Sanji.

“No, dude.” Usopp grinned. “Just how I like it. My inner Rasta is feeling the love.”

The chef looked at his boyfriend. “Burger okay?”

Zoro grunted, swallowing a mouthful and washing it down with a swig of beer. “Yeah.”

Picking up a forkful of his pasta salad, Sanji offered it towards him. “Try some of this. It’s got a really great pesto dressing. They must have made it fresh, you can really taste the basil.”

The swordsman eyed the mostly green dish. “What are the black bits?”

“Olives. Try it.”

More to keep the peace than from any real desire to eat the salad, Zoro obliged. And gave a nod. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

The chef took a mouthful of his own food. “I’m gonna educate your palate if it kills me.”

Zoro elected to act as if he hadn’t heard that comment.

“Hey, Sanji.” Luffy paused in shovelling food into his maw. “When are you gonna come hang with us at the Ark?”

Lifting one eyebrow, Sanji looked at Usopp. “That the place down by the riverside you were telling me about?” Usopp nodded.

“It’s so cool there. They have live bands and DJs, crazy artists, all kindsa stuff.” Luffy beamed at the chef. “You should come see it.”

“I will. When work’s less crazy than it is right now,” the chef answered.

Luffy laughed. “Blow work off and come anyway.”

“Dumbass. You can’t do that when you run your own business.”

“Why not? Usopp goofs off all the time.” Luffy thumped the lanky artist on the arm.

“Which is probably why I’ve yet to establish my online gaming empire or actually pay my rent when it’s due,” Usopp commented sheepishly. “Also: _ouch_ _.”_

“Speaking of business: how’re you getting on with my catering promotional flyer?” Sanji put this to the artist.

“Layout’s done, just finishing the artwork. Should be able to get it to you end of the week.” Usopp nodded. “Sorry it’s taken a while, man. Been busting my tail fixing glitches in Going Merry, had error messages up the ass from P.O.’d gamers. That thing’s gonna be the death of me.”

“End of the week’ll be fine. Thanks for working on it for me.”

 _“_ _De nada_ _._ It’s good to have something else to work on. I’m starting to kinda hate pirates.”

“No way!” Luffy almost choked on his burger, rounding on his friend indignantly. “Going Merry _rocks!_ You can’t talk shit about pirates.”

“Yes way.” Usopp folded his arms across his chest. “You’re not the one spending half your frikkin life on game maintenance and juggling server clusters to keep the damn thing up and running.”

“We’ve got tons of players now!” Luffy scowled at him. “It’s totally taken off.”

“Yeah: many players equals more income from subs, but bigger headaches keeping Going Merry afloat.” Usopp shook his head. “We never planned for it to get this big. It’s way clunky, how we put it together – ‘f’I’d known how many gamers we were gonna get signing up, I’d have designed it totally differently.”

“You guys still making money off it?” asked Zoro.

Usopp nodded slowly. “Uh huh. But it’s getting harder and harder to keep on top of the maintenance. What we really ought to do is shut the whole thing down for a week or three, so I can fix everything properly.”

Luffy pulled a face. “Mehhh. Can’t we just make a new game?” His eyes lit up. “How about outer space, like your painting? Oh, hey! Space pirates!! Yeah!” He drummed both hands on the table.

“Right.” The artist gave him a level look. “Let’s just ditch something we’ve put a zillion hours of work into and start up a whole new project. That won’t totally consume what’s left of my life, at all.”

Beside Zoro, Sanji started as his phone pinged: he picked it up from the table and scanned the screen. Then put down his fork with clatter. “No no no... You have to be _kidding_ me.”

The swordsman glanced at his boyfriend. “S’up?”

 _“_ _Fait chier -_ _”_ Sanji ran one hand into his hair, clenching his fingers. _“_ _Pas moyen!”_ He let out a hard exhalation; then after a moment, looked up to see the trio of friends watching him soberly. “Uh. Crap... Sorry.” He gestured agitatedly with his phone. “That was the woman I’m doing this catering job for tomorrow. She’s just emailed to tell me there’s one more extra guest coming.”

“So make some extra sushi,” Zoro responded.

“One extra guest with a severe allergy to _sesame_.” Sanji said this through gritted teeth. “Fucking sesame. Which I’ve used in some of the stuff I prepped already. Which means there could be traces of it in everything. _Fuck._ ”

There was a moment’s silence at their table: then the chef stood up, abandoning what was left of his meal. “I’m really sorry, guys – I have to bail. I’m gonna have to go re-make a shitload of extra food.” His face contorted into a frown. “Jesus. I’ll have to go buy more ingredients.” He checked the time on his phone. “Ah, almost two o’clock - okay, if I go by the market first I can get more fresh produce - then I should be able to swing by the Asian grocer’s for extra sushi nori...” He was lighting a cigarette as he spoke, then followed this by pulling out his wallet and laying fifteen dollars on the table. “This ought to cover my food and share of the tip.”

“Whoa, dude – you didn’t even finish eating it, you don’t have to pay all that,” Usopp objected, but Sanji shook his head.

“It’s okay. I hate to eat and run, but I gotta go sort out this mess.” The chef turned to his boyfriend with an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Zoro gave him a small smile, and a half-shake of his head. “Go do what you have to, cook. I’ll catch you later, at your place.”

Sanji bent and gave him a hasty kiss, before straightening up and bidding them all farewell with a wave. “Later, guys. Enjoy the rest of your lunch.” And with that he turned and strode away.

There was a brief silence in the wake of the chef’s departure, finally broken when Luffy asked, “Does that mean Sanji can’t use all that food he’s already made?”

“Sounds like it.” Usopp blew out heavily. “That’s totally fucked-up, only just telling him now about that sesame thing. Like, less than twenty-four hours’ notice before he has to deliver the goods? _Seriously_ high-maintenance client.”

“Yeah.” Zoro was thinking the same thing.

“So what’s Sanji gonna do with the food?” Luffy sounded hopeful.

Zoro had been wondering this himself. “Guess he could try selling it at _Bite Me_ _.”_

“Huh.” Luffy looked thoughtful. “If you’re allergic to sesame, does that mean you can’t eat hamburgers? ‘Cos of the sesame seed buns? That’s really lame.”

“You’d just buy one without sesame seeds.” Usopp gave his friend a level look.

“Ah?” Luffy appeared to consider this, then shrugged. “Does anyone want to finish Sanji’s food?”

Wordlessly, Zoro passed the chef’s abandoned lunch over to his friend: Luffy harpooned a forkful of pasta and tried it enthusiastically. _“_ _Nom_ _..._ This is great.”

Usopp looked sympathetically at the swordsman. “Guess that phone call messed up your and Sanji’s day off, huh?”

Taking a bite of his burger, Zoro shrugged. “Shit happens. He’s got a killer schedule right now, trying to keep his business afloat. Just gotta roll with it.”

“Things are bound to get better soon.” Usopp sounded deliberately cheerful. “My mom always said that good luck was just a combination of opportunity and hard work. The way Sanji busts his buns making a go of _Bite Me_ , he deserves to be a success.”

“Sanji’s food is the _best_.” Luffy pronounced this through a mouthful of pasta. “ ‘Member that chicken barbecue he made at my party?” He beamed at Zoro. “Hey, let’s have another party soon.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” the swordsman advised him. “This catering shit he’s doing looks like it’s gonna happen most weekends through summer.”

“Dawww....” Luffy looked downcast. “That sucks. Summer’s fun time.”

“Not for everyone.”

Usopp gave the swordsman a sidelong look. “Air con still busted at the gym?”

Zoro shook his head. “Got fixed last week. Thank fuck.”

“How your ribs doing?”

“Better.” It was more or less the truth: the bruising had reached the technicolour stage, but the actual pain was reducing by degrees every day.

Usopp shook his head with a wry one-sided smile. “Still can’t believe you got your ribs busted and didn’t take time off work.”

“I managed okay.” Zoro took a swig of his beer. “Plus I didn’t want management on my case. They always give us shit if we take a day off sick.”

“Yeah, but actual broken bones? _C’mon_.” Usopp grimaced.

The swordsman shrugged. “Hurt worse that time I got my collar bone busted. Ribs’ll mend.”

“Dude, I know you are a shit hot kendo fighter and all, but still: you ever consider taking up something less hazardous?” Usopp lifted his eyebrows. “Lost count of the times you’ve had some part of your anatomy maimed. Like, what exactly is it about getting hit with a stick that’s _fun_?”

Luffy laughed. “Usopp, you big fucking wusspants.” He slung an arm round Zoro’s shoulders. “Kendo’s awesome!”

Gesturing at his younger friend with his thumb, Zoro nodded. “What he said.”

Usopp folded his arms across his chest. “You two both know you’re abnormal, right?”

Luffy grinned even wider. “See: this is why you always lose in Going Merry, ya big nerfed chickenshit.”

The lanky artist narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“You gotta go all out, to win. What’s the point of playing, else?” Luffy settled his hat at a jaunty angle on the back of his head.

Usopp sighed. “It’s a hard life, being an unappreciated and deeply-sensitive creative genius surrounded by friends with homicidal tendencies. You guys can kiss my ass.”

It was close to three o’clock before the trio of friends left the café: Usopp and Luffy heading homewards for a gaming session, still bickering over tactics.

Zoro walked through the park for a while, not in any hurry to return to Sanji’s apartment. If – as seemed likely – the chef was going to be busy cooking, that didn’t leave a whole lot for Zoro to do except nap on the couch or watch TV, and he’d just as soon be outside in the fresh air. In one corner of the park there was shade under some trees, and with the light breeze that had picked up it was pleasantly cooler.

He chose a spot near a fat-trunked plane tree that was not too near any of the small family groups or knots of teens that dotted the grass, and knelt in seiza to do some mokuso practice. Tuning out the park sounds enough that he could relax; focusing his gaze on a point on the ground a few feet in front of him; feeling each breath enter and leave his body.

It felt good to do this. The beer he’d had with lunch had left him with a slight buzz, but not enough to make him sleepy. He could feel the summer air moving, cooling the bare skin of his neck; could see the shadows of the tree’s canopy shift and dance against the short dry grass. Dropping down into awareness of this place, of his own body. Letting go of thoughts. 

_Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in. Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out._

Zoro stayed in mokuso until the tree shadows began to lengthen across the grass.

Sanji ran his finger down his printed checklist of birthday party menu dishes for the – hopefully – final time, tapping each one as he went. Glancing across to his laden refrigerator with its door open, scanning the containers stacked on its shelves to make double-sure he hadn’t missed anything off the party catering menu.

He’d only got halfway down the list when his apartment buzzer sounded.

 _“Merde - attends un peu!”_ He kept going, more swiftly: stabbing the piece of paper with his forefinger as he tallied each item off.

After a few more seconds the buzzer went again. The chef reached the last menu item and tapped it, before letting out an explosive sigh. “Fucking at _last_.”

Pushing the list aside and shutting the refrigerator door with a thud, he hurried out of the kitchen and thumbed the apartment entryphone, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it as he did so. “Yeah, I’m here.”

_“You gonna let me in, shit cook?”_

“Door’s open.” Sanji hit the button that released the downstairs door lock.

By the time he heard Zoro entering the apartment, the chef had run a sink full of hot soapy water and was making a start on clearing away the aftermath of an afternoon of frenzied food prep.

“Hey.” The swordsman appeared in the kitchen doorway, and eyed the wreckage. “Shit... Don’t tell me you’re _still_ cooking?”

“Just finished.” Sanji swiped a cloth over a surface, then dumped a chopping board by the sink. “Christ, what an afternoon. I have never enjoyed making food less in my life.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro hefted a six pack of beer in one hand, and raised a bottle of rose-coloured wine in the other. “Here. Thought maybe you could use something to take the edge off.”

Sanji looked at the wine bottle label, pleasantly surprised. “You remembered I like white Merlot?”

“Texted Nami to find out.” Zoro crossed to the refrigerator with the alcohol and opened the door, then paused with raised eyebrows. “Eh... This thing’s full.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Sanji moved across too, shutting the fridge door. “Got party food for twenty people twice over stashed in there.”

His boyfriend grunted, setting the wine and beer down on the kitchen table instead. “Then I guess you’ll just have to drink it straight off, shit cook.”

“No argument from me. I’m just going to wash up all this, then I am done for the day.” Sanji took a drag on his cigarette.

“Want a hand?”

“I’ll wash, you wipe.” Sanji reached for a dish towel and tossed it to the swordsman. “Don’t drop anything.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, apart from the slosh of the washing up water and clink of cookware and cutlery. Sanji was the one who broke the quiet. “You hang out with Luffy and Usopp a while longer at the café?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry I had to bail on you guys.”

“No big.”

Sanji gave his boyfriend a sideways look. “I feel kind of crappy about it though. Would’ve been nice to just be able to chill out together this afternoon.”

“Not like it’s your fault your customers got their panties in a twist about sesame.”

“Well, no... Bad timing, I guess.” Sanji let out a sigh. “And what really sucks, is I’m not even gonna make any money on this job. Having to re-make all that food has totalled my budget.”

A frown drew Zoro’s brows downwards. “You oughta bill ‘em twice over.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Couldn’t you have given ‘em some of the stuff you’d already made?”

“With a severe food allergy? Yeah, that’d look great on my business record – causing a customer to wind up in hospital from anaphylactic shock.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “Of course I fucking couldn’t.”

“Okay, shit cook. I only asked.”

“I’m a professional chef, I know what procedures to follow with food allergies. Okay: having to re-make almost every single dish sucked big time, but there wasn’t any alternative.”

The swordsman grunted. “I’d have told ‘em it was too fuckin’ late to invite extra guests with picky appetites.”

Sanji felt a spike of irritation. “I can’t just let customers down like that, the day before their party. Nor am I going to upset a girl when she’s looking forward to celebrating her birthday with her friends.”

“So some yuppie princess has to ask one of her BFFs to order in pizza. Big deal.”

Twisting round at the sink, the chef skewered his boyfriend with a dirty look. “When I cook, I do it properly. There wouldn’t have been much point me starting up this business in the first place, if I didn’t aim to keep high standards. I’d have stayed in those fucking temping jobs instead.”

“Right.” Zoro was still frowning.

“This is what I want to do, moss-head. I want to run my own business, and make a success of it. And right now that means that I have to put in a lot of hours. I keep telling you: chefs don’t generally have a bundle of friends, because the job fucks with your social life. You’re just gonna have to wrap your head around that.” Sanji held him with his gaze.

After a pause, Zoro’s mouth twitched up at one corner. “Love me, love my job; huh.”

Letting out a snort of laughter, Sanji turned back to the dishes in the sink. “Like you’re any less single-minded, Mr Kendo Obsessive.”

Zoro picked up a rinsed bowl and began wiping it dry. “...Whatever, shitty cook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> Et viola: bon appétit = Here y'go: enjoy!  
> Shukriyaa = thank you (Hindi)  
> Fait chier = Damn it / Shit  
> Pas moyen = No way  
> Merde - attends un peu = Shit - wait a minute
> 
> At the risk of sounding repetitive, my continuing gratitude to all of you readers. <3


	7. Bad Luck Got A Hold On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro gave him a disgruntled look. “Who the fuck wears a tie when they go out to a bar?”
> 
> Gesturing at his own pink shirt and white tie, Sanji fixed him with a level stare. “People with taste?”
> 
> The swordsman lifted an eyebrow. “Wearing that colour, you want to hand out fashion advice? Blow me.”
> 
> Sanji shook his head, before picking up his wine and taking another sip. “This is called style, moss-head. I wouldn’t expect someone of your limited sartorial capabilities to understand.”
> 
> Zoro grunted. “Like I give a shit.”
> 
> “What is it about dressing to look good that offends your sensibilities?” The chef cocked his head at his boyfriend. “You think it’s too fucking nelly or something?”
> 
> “No. Just not that into dressing up.” The swordsman shrugged.
> 
> Sanji gave a sudden sly smile. “That why you picked a martial art where you fight in costume?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers:  
> Slightly graphic description of illness (avoid if you have emetophobia)  
> Description of panic attack

* * *

_I went to the bank  
To see what they could do  
They said, Son - looks like bad luck  
Got a hold on you_

_\- The Valentine Brothers_

* * *

There were three things Sanji hated about running his own business. Chasing catering customers to pay for their food orders was a pain in the ass. Arguing with suppliers about errors in deliveries and refunds owed always sucked up frustrating amounts of time. But by far and away his least favourite part of running _Bite Me_ was doing his weekly accounts.

Nami had set him up with state-of-the-art accounting software (somehow gained as a freebie from one of her travel clients who was a CPA), which made the whole process straightforward enough. The software’s spreadsheets were clearly laid out and fairly simple to customise, so adapting them to his own particular business hadn’t been difficult. He kept a record of his business outgoings and income; religiously put any invoices and receipts in box files labelled for that purpose; printed off his business bank statements each month and filed those too. At the end of each week he paid _Bite Me_ _’s_ cash takings into the bank, minus the float he needed for customers at the stall. He pretty much knew to the last dime how his finances were doing.

...Which was where the stress came in. Because right now, every time he sat down to update his books it was basically an exercise in staring at numbers which were telling him _Bite Me_ was barely limping along. The extra income his weekend catering work was bringing in was enough to keep his business in the black: he’d just be able to pay his monthly outgoings like the stall rental and utilities, food and catering supplies costs... But what was left over was fucking laughable. Except he really didn’t feel like laughing about it.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” Sanji breathed this lowly, hunched over his desk and frowning at the spreadsheet he was currently adding figures onto.

_Okay, food costs this week are up because I had to do that birthday party catering job over... So that wiped any profit. But I was able to sell some of the surplus at Bite Me on Monday, so that’s not a total loss. And I didn’t get any catering gigs booked for this weekend, but I’ve got two next week._ _Takings from the stall are still down: maybe I should run some kind of promotion, try to bring some new customers in?_

He clicked back to the previous month’s page and ran his gaze over those figures, then returned to the current week.

_Start of the month: got utilities and rent coming out next week; rental the week after that. Gonna need to order more take-out cartons and cutlery and napkins, too._

The figures in the spreadsheet blurred: he blinked and rubbed his eyes, sitting for a moment with his face propped in his hands.

_C’mon. Get your shit together._

Letting out a sigh he opened his eyes wide and checked the columns of figures again, to make double-sure he’d input everything he needed to; then saved the document before closing the whole thing down.

Reaching for the remains of an almost-cooled mug of coffee, he glanced at the time in the corner of the screen and grimaced: 1.37 AM. He’d gotten through two large cafetières of Nicaraguan dark roast since he’d got home, ploughing through the end-of-week admin and paperwork. That left tomorrow _–_ _No, shit, make that_ _today_ – free to catch up on food prep for _Bite Me._ His plan was to make batches of things which could be frozen, like samosas and spring rolls and sweet pastries.

_Okay, fine. Keeping things on track. Just need to keep going, this summer slump won’t last forever. I can get through this._

Hitting his laptop’s power button, Sanji watched the screen wink to black. Then he stood, taking his coffee with him to the kitchen and abandoning it in the sink along with the plate from his sandwich supper.

He was standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth and yawning simultaneously, when he remembered he’d left his cell phone in the living room.

_Merde._

The phone was lying on the low table by the couch. When he picked it up, he saw there were a couple of messages on it. At some point while he’d been working he’d switched the phone onto do-not-disturb mode and forgotten he’d done it: letting out a _tchh_ of annoyance, Sanji swiped the screen and brought the messages up. The first was from Nami, sent about three hours ago.

_‘Hey hon really looking forward 2 my birthday night out with u 2moro. Plan = drink tequila sunrises till actual sunrise :) hope ur livers in good shape ;) C U at Rip Off 8.30pm xxx <3’ _

Sanji let out a small snort of laughter, smiling wryly. He decided it was way too late to risk accidentally waking Nami up: morning would do for a reply.

The next couple of messages were from Zoro: the first sent early in the evening.

_‘Can come over to yours tomorrow afternoon - or we meeting at Rip Off later?’_

The second message, sent just before midnight, was more peremptory. _‘Oi cook - want to let me know what the plan is?’_

This time the chef frowned, before typing in an answer.

_‘Got food prep to do - Let’s meet at the bar 8pm.’_

He sent the message, doubting that anything would disturb Zoro from sleep; then headed to his own bed.

The following day passed busily but relatively smoothly, Sanji working his way through the list of food he’d aimed to get prepped and frozen for the next week’s custom at _Bite Me_ _._

He’d started the day with a monster pot of coffee – _Thank fuck for caffeine_ was his daily prayer at the moment – and skipped breakfast, ploughing straight into his food prep after he’d sent Nami a return message about their planned get-together that evening. Everything went pretty smoothly, and by early evening he was able to slide the last container of prepped pastries into his freezer.

Looking around his kitchen he let out a long sigh, regarding the used equipment and surfaces and leftover ingredients that would all need sorting out next.

_Au diable tout ça._

Picking up his pack of cigarettes from where he’d left them on top of the fridge, he extracted one and lit up, before dropping into a chair at his kitchen table. Letting out a long stream of smoke, he let his eyes shut and his head relax backwards, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his neck and shoulders.

_Crap... I am wiped._

His back ached a little too. Earlier in the week he’d had a text from Chopper, following up to ask how things were going with the therapeutic back exercises. It had reminded Sanji that he hadn’t actually done the stretches Chopper had given him, for a couple of weeks... They were just another extra thing he somehow hadn’t found the time for.

He’d replied to Chopper with a cheerful message, sounding positive while not actually revealing that he hadn’t been following doctor’s orders.

_I’ll get back into them this weekend._

The sudden sound of his phone now made him start and open his eyes, twisting in his chair to locate where he’d left the device: plugged in next to his food processor, from when he’d needed to double-check a recipe online. Exhaling, Sanji got to his feet and retrieved the phone: Zoro’s number showed on the screen. The chef swiped his thumb across to take the call. “Hi, moss-head.”

“You still working?”

“Just finished.” Sanji sat back down at the table again, leaning back in the chair. “Well, almost... Gotta clean up the kitchen.”

The swordsman grunted. “We still meeting at the Rip Off for eight?”

“That’s the plan.” Sanji checked the time on his phone: just before seven. “S’okay, I’ll just wipe down and wash up in here, then grab a shower.” He found a gigantic yawn escaping. “Wauhhh... Wow, that first glass of wine is going to taste good.”

“You gonna make it through the evening, cook?” Zoro sounded amused. “Sounds like your first glass of wine’ll put you to sleep.”

“I’ll be fine, smartass. Long day is all.” Sanji rubbed one hand through his hair. “You coming back here after?”

“Yeah. If that works for you.”

“I’m not working tomorrow, I have an entire fucking day off. So yeah: that works for me.” Sanji took a pull on his cigarette, then released a slow blue stream of smoke. “In fact, you know what would _really_ work for me?”

“Hope it involves staying in bed.” Zoro sounded like he was grinning.

“I could really use one of those killer massages you’re so good at giving. Starting from my feet and working all...the way...up.” The chef pronounced this with relish.

This time the swordsman let out a laugh. “Yeah? What’s in it for me?”

“Use your imagination, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Sanji leered into the phone.

“Uh huh.” Zoro snorted. “Pervert cook.”

“Pot: kettle.” The chef drawled this. “Okay, I better get my shit together if I’m gonna get all this cleaned up and take a shower before I head out. What’re you wearing?”

“Right now?” The swordsman’s tone had a smirk in it. “We got time for phone sex?”

“No, moron – what are you wearing tonight, for Nami’s birthday.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a fucking dress code.”

“We’re celebrating a lovely lady’s birthday: of course we’re going to dress smart.” Sanji sighed with exasperation. “How about that charcoal shirt and dark suit pants? You look good in those.”

Zoro met this proposal with a grunt of non-enthusiasm. “Like hell am I wearing a long-sleeve shirt in this weather.”

“Okay, fine: wear what you want. Just don’t turn up looking like a slob. And remember: you’re picking up the tab for Nami’s birthday drinks.”

“Not likely to forget. I’m working an extra shift next week to pay for it.” Zoro’s reply came back dryly.

“Asshole. Nami doesn’t drink _that_ much, unlike some I could mention.”

“We’re not all lightweights like you.”

“Some of us prefer to appreciate the actual taste of drinks, instead of just seeing how much alcohol we can swill down.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “I’m hanging up. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“See you there, shit cook.”

In the end it took a little longer to clean the kitchen and shower then Sanji had anticipated, and it was later than he’d planned by the time he headed out. For a moment he was tempted to call a cab and get to the Rip Off quicker – but his current need to be frugal won out, so he just made use of the bus and walked fast.

The bar when he arrived there was getting Saturday-night-busy, a crowd of customers already thronging the bar. Sanji had booked ahead of time so he knew they’d have a spot to land in: he made his way to their reserved booth and found Zoro already sitting there with a beer in front of him.

“You got a head start, huh.” The chef directed an amused smile at his boyfriend, as he bent down and claimed a kiss.

Zoro obliged, giving him an answering smirk. “I got here for eight o’clock.”

“Okay, smartass.” Sanji sat down. “Do I get a drink too?”

“What do you want?”

“A very large glass of Malbec.”

Zoro returned from the bar after a short interval, sliding the glass of purple-red wine in front of the chef. Sanji picked it up and inhaled the scent of dark fruit and tannin: sun-warmed grapes of southern France giving up their lifeblood to make a rich, full-bodied drink. Taking a good sip, he savoured the strong flavour before swallowing. He relaxed back in his seat, setting his wine glass back on the table with a sigh. “ _Ça y est_ _..._ That’s good.” Turning his gaze onto his boyfriend, he appraised the other’s appearance: the swordsman was wearing a dark red short-sleeved shirt that was open a few buttons and hanging untucked over his black jeans. Sanji shook his head wryly. “Do you even _own_ a tie?”

Zoro gave him a disgruntled look. “Who the fuck wears a tie when they go out to a bar?”

Gesturing at his own pink shirt and white tie, the chef fixed him with a level stare. “People with taste?”

The swordsman lifted an eyebrow. “Wearing that colour, you want to hand out fashion advice? Blow me.”

Sanji shook his head, before picking up his wine and taking another sip. “This is called style, moss-head. I wouldn’t expect someone of your limited sartorial capabilities to understand.”

Zoro grunted. “Like I give a shit.”

“What is it about dressing to look good that offends your sensibilities?” The chef cocked his head at his boyfriend. “You think it’s too fucking nelly or something?”

“No. Just not that into dressing up.” The swordsman shrugged.

Sanji gave a sudden sly smile. “That why you picked a martial art where you fight in costume?”

Zoro favoured him with a level gaze. “Get off it, shitty cook.”

“C’mon, mosshead: we still haven’t really explored the realms of kendo role play.” The chef was grinning now. “I mean, we talked about the possibility of us fucking with you wearing your kendo uniform, but up to now we haven’t actually gone there.”

Picking up his beer, Zoro let out a slow breath. “...Uh huh.”

“Not allowed to sully your sacred kendo garments?” Sanji raised his eyebrows suggestively. “C’mon. I went along with your pain kink the other week, least you could do is try this out. Could be a bundle of fun.”

The swordsman gave a sudden low laugh. “Bōgu too?”

“Mmm, maybe just your hakama and gi.” Sanji considered the scenario. “And that bandana you wear on your head, you look kinda badass in that.”

“Tenugui.” Zoro’s mouth hiked up at one corner.

“Yeah. But no shinai.” The chef nodded. “That would be a mood-killer.”

Taking a gulp of his beer, Zoro rested one arm on the back of the booth. “Sounds like you’ve given a lot of thought to this.”

“I spent eight hours today in my kitchen making food. Gotta have some distractions.” Sanji shrugged.

“Still busy, huh?”

“An emphatic yes.” The chef exhaled lengthily. “No catering gigs this weekend, but I wanted to get a head start on next week... Next weekend’s fully booked, I’ve got a kids’ party and a hen night to cater for. On top of all the usual shitty paperwork, which never seems to diminish.” He sighed, then picked up his glass of wine. “But let’s forget all that crap. We’re out to celebrate tonight: I don’t want to think about work. You heard anything from Luffy or Usopp since they took off for that crazy fire festival?”

“Luffy’s been messaging me pictures every couple hours.” Zoro nodded towards his phone, which lay on the table. “Having a wild time, looks like.”

“You heard from Ace too?”

“He and Marco are performing there. Probably too busy setting fire to stuff to check in.” Zoro smiled. “Ace told me there’d be a bunch of circus buddies there, guys they usually hook up with at Burning Man. They’ll be partying their asses off.”

“Sounds fun.” Sanji propped his chin on his hand. “I miss going to festivals. I used to work at one or two in the summer when I was student, cooking at food stalls.”

Zoro nodded at him. “You could come hang out the next time we go to the Ark. That place has got kinda festival vibe to it: music, weird-ass art, plenty to drink.”

“I will.” The chef felt a slight pang. “I’d like to hang out with you guys more.” He met his boyfriend’s gaze. “Just... not enough hours in the week, lately.”

A familiar voice sounded beside them, breaking the moment. “Heh, looking soulfully into each other’s eyes... Want me to come back in ten minutes?”

Sanji looked around to see Nami standing with one elbow resting on the back of their booth, a broad grin on her face. Quickly he got to his feet. _“Ah,_ _chérie!”_ He took her free hand and drew her into an embrace, kissing her. “Happy birthday, _mon ange.”_ After stepping back he viewed her outfit appreciatively: a colourful gypsy blouse over a pair of tight low-rise jeans. “You look absolutely gorgeous. Sit down: what can we get you to drink?”

“I thought I’d made that pretty clear in the message I sent you yesterday.” Nami winked at Zoro, before raising her eyebrows at Sanji. “Tequila sunrise, please. Lots and LOTS.”

The chef gave his boyfriend a significant look: Zoro got to his feet. “Okay. Coming right up.”

Nami watched the swordsman shoulder his way through the throng towards the bar, then turned back and smiled at Sanji. “You’ve got him trained now to fetch drinks on command? Impressive.”

“Work in progress.” The chef smiled back at her. “He’s an uncultured oaf, but given time I think he can be integrated into polite society.”

His friend laughed. “Something tells me that wasn’t a lesson in etiquette I interrupted between the two of you just now. You were practically in each other’s laps.”

Feeling the blood start to flush into his face, Sanji waved his hand in denial. “We were just talking.”

“Right.” Nami smirked.

Decisively, Sanji changed the subject. “You had a good birthday week, _chérie?”_

“Mostly. Work was the usual.” She pulled a face. “But you treating me to a birthday lunch at _Bite Me_ on Monday was a high point. My taste buds are still feeling the afterglow. And, oh yeah! – Nojiko called me midweek, we talked for like two hours.”

Sanji knew how close the two adopted sisters were. “That’s so great you heard from her. How is she?”

“Busy, of course. Just coming to the end of peak harvest time, it’s the first year the Valencia oranges made a really good crop. She’s been getting pretty good prices for them on the market, it was a smart move to plant up those orchards four years ago.”

“Wasn’t that your idea?”

“I suggested it and ran some numbers for her, but was Nojiko who did all the hard work. It’s a relief it all paid off.” Nami got that smile on her face that she always did when she was talking about her big sister. “She really deserves an even break. Nojiko works her tail off running that place.”

“She’s okay, though? The farm’s doing all right?”

“About as good as it ever does.” Nami sighed. “Only a crazy person would try and make a living as a citrus grower. Being a farmer is a total gamble, you might as well put all your money on roulette.”

Sanji failed to think of a positive comeback to this, not least because he and Nami had navigated this conversation several times before. He settled for saying something hopefully non-controversial. “Well, Nojiko loves that piece of family land. And it’s cool that you’ve been able to help her out with some of the business stuff.”

“I’m pretty fond of the old place too.” Nami looked pensive for a moment, her eyes sobering... Before giving her head a slight shake, as if to dispel memories. “But Nojiko’s the best one to take care of it. Farming? Ugh.” She pulled a face. “Dirt. Machinery. _Bugs._ Non-stop work. No thanks.”

“You think you’ll get back there for a visit this year?”

“Maybe; depends on work. Which we are so _not_ going to talk about.” She pronounced this decisively. 

Opportunely, this was the moment Zoro reappeared from his bar errand. He set a pitcher of red-orange cocktail on the table, along with a second large glass of Malbec for Sanji and another beer for himself.

“I’m still on my first one,” Sanji responded, lifting his half-full glass.

“Had to queue at the bar, might as well get a round in.” Zoro shrugged.

“I like the way you think.” Nami smirked at him. “Keep ‘em coming, bar boy.”

Sitting back down, Zoro merely hiked an eyebrow and took a gulp of his beer.

Sanji waited until Nami had her glass of tequila sunrise, before lifting his own wine glass in a toast. “Here’s to you, _chérie._ Many happy returns: may the coming year be a good one for you, filled with good times with good friends; good health, and good fortune.”

“Amen. Especially to the latter.” Nami grinned at him.

Their three glasses clinked together, before they each took a hit on their respective drinks. Nami let out a sigh. “Thanks, hon. Oh boy, am I ready to let my hair down tonight. And in an air-conditioned bar, thank god.” She pressed her condensation-frosted glass against her cheek, ice cubes clinking within it. “If anyone ever denies climate change in my earshot again, I am gonna slap them sillier than they already are. This summer’s already brutal, and we’re only at the beginning of July.”

“Maybe this heatwave’ll break soon,” Sanji offered only half-hopefully.

“Not according to the meteorological charts,” Nami responded, pulling a face. “From what I see, this is gonna last a while longer.”

Zoro gave the redhead a look. “You read weather charts?”

Nami shrugged. “It’s not difficult to learn, I took a course a while back. It’s useful to be able to supply forecasts for different areas of the world, for my travel customers.” She gave the swordsman a sly smile. “Another added extra I can bill them for.”

Sanji smiled too. “Always smart, _ma_ _chérie._ _”_

“Gotta stay ahead of the competition.” She gave him a wink. “In business, only the smart survive.”

For some reason, the place this went to in Sanji didn’t feel totally comfortable. Though he didn’t show it, maybe Nami picked up on his reaction: she slid one hand across the table and gave his own hand a squeeze. “And the totally awesome cooks too, of course. The _Bite Me_ brand will go from strength to strength.”

“Thanks.” The chef returned her smile, warmed as ever by her faith in him.

Nami turned her attention to Zoro. “How goes it in the muscle and sweat business?”

The swordsman grunted. “Fine.”

“How’re the ribs? Sanji told me you got beat up in some kendo competition the other week.”

Zoro’s eyes met the chef’s: Sanji gave a slight shrug and smile in return. The swordsman turned his gaze back to Nami. “Healing okay.”

“That happen often, getting whupped?”

“Didn’t get whupped.”

“Like you’d ‘fess up if you did.” She grinned at him.

Sanji decided a change of subject was in order. He reached into the bag he’d stashed under the table and extracted a carefully gift-wrapped parcel and envelope, placing them on the table top. “Happy birthday, _chérie.”_

“Ooh, gifts.” Nami beamed. “I love getting presents.”

Zoro also produced an envelope, laying it beside Sanji’s offerings. “Yeah, happy birthday.”

Picking up the swordsman’s envelope first, Nami inspected it speculatively. “Hmm... A gift token?” She tested the envelope between her fingers. “Definitely not money.” Sliding one finger into the envelope, she ripped it open and drew out a plastic card with a Flex Gym logo on it.

“Three months free membership, full package.” Zoro nodded at the card. “When it runs out, you’ll get a good deal for annual membership.”

Nami held up the card between her two fingers and grinned at the swordsman. “Any personal trainer sessions included?”

“Talk to the receptionist when you come in.” Zoro sounded like he knew when he was outmanoeuvred.

“Alllriiighty.” Nami pocketed the gym membership card, still grinning. “Thank you very much.” She turned to Sanji’s card and picked it up, opening the envelope and drawing out a picture of a tropical island of pink sand against a brilliant turquoise sea. “Ah ha. Don’t tell me, you’ve bought me my own personal island in the South Pacific.”

“Not quite, _mon ange_ _._ Though I would if I could.” Sanji smiled at her.

“I’ll control my disappointment.” She winked at him, picking up the gift-wrapped parcel of turquoise and gold paper and starting to rip it open. “We can work up to tropical islands, once you’ve established your catering empire. I appreciate the thought...” Her voice tailed off as she got into the inner layer of tissue and unfolded it, revealing the gold and blue of the necklace Sanji had bought.

There was a pause, where Nami sat staring at the necklace. Sanji felt his heart start to sink.

_She doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s gaudy. I picked the wrong thing._

Then Nami looked up at him, and her eyes were big. “Oh my fucking god. I _love_ this.”

A sensation of light and warmth skipping in his chest made Sanji smile with relief. “You do?”

“It’s _gorgeous_.” Nami picked the necklace up and draped it over her hand, examining the gold filigree work, fingering the kyanite gemstones. “So beautiful... Oh – this is actual _gold!_ You bought me a _gold_ necklace?” Her wide eyes found him again. “You are completely insane and I love you.” Without further preamble she launched herself across the table and wrapped him in her arms, kissing him.

Sanji felt a big warm glow start deep inside him and work its way outwards, plastering a big silly grin on his own face. As Nami let him go and sat back in her seat the chef beamed at her, feeling a blush spreading heat across his face. “I’m so glad you like it, _chérie.”_

“I don’t like it. I _love_ it.” Nami held the necklace up, inspecting it from all angles. “Wow... Where did you get this? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“A Portuguese jeweller, in the European market a few weeks ago.” Sanji basked in the glow of her pleasure. “I saw it and thought it would be perfect for you.”

“It is perfect.” Nami held the necklace against herself, then turned to him. “Put it on for me.”

Sanji unfastened the necklace’s clasp and placed the gold filigree work around his friend’s neck as she held her hair out of the way. He closed the clasp shut, checking it carefully to make sure it was secure, before settling the whole thing into place. “There you go, _chérie.”_

Nami turned back to face him, running her fingers over the delicate gold and sea-blue gemstones. “Thank you, hon. It’s a really special gift.”

“For a special and beautiful lady.” Sanji picked up her hand and bestowed a kiss on it, smiling at her. “And this isn’t just a birthday gift: it’s a thank you too, for all the help you’ve given me over the past six months. I couldn’t have got _Bite Me_ up and running without you.”

“Pshh.” Nami made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “You did all the actual work. I just looked at a few spreadsheets and website designs for you.”

“You did a lot more than that. And I’m very, very grateful.”

Stroking one finger along one of the blue gemstones, Nami gave him a sudden penetrating look. “You must have spent a bundle on this.”

“No more than you deserve.” Sanji waved his hand dismissively.

His friend regarded him with her steady brown gaze. “I hope it wasn’t more than you can afford.”

“I sweet-talked the stall holder, she gave me a very good deal.” The chef had mentally rehearsed his reply, preparing for that question.

“Mm-hm.” Her eyes looked undeceived.

Sanji gave her a big smile. “It looks stunning on you, _chérie.”_

One corner of his friend’s mouth twitched upwards. “It’s lovely. Thank you, hon.”

Nami made no further enquiry, and after this their conversation turned to other things. The freakishly hot weather; the seasonal influx of tourists into the city; places they’d rather be instead of here, during the summer. Nami inquired after the absence of Luffy et al, which led to talk about festivals and their vices and virtues.

As the evening wore on the bar grew busier, noise levels rising and the crowd density increasing. The buzz of conversation and hum of background music blended with the warm buzz of successive glasses of Malbec in Sanji’s head, softening the edges of everything and mellowing him out. He and Zoro settled closer together in the booth, thighs touching under the table. A faint clean scent came off the swordsman’s skin, as if he’d showered just before coming out; mingled with the hoppy notes of beer. And with it heat, as always: that warmth that Zoro seemed to emanate whatever the background temperature.

Sanji inhaled slowly, idly trying to identify whatever shower gel his boyfriend had used. Citrus notes, with something cooler: lime and mint, maybe. His inner vision conjured up an image of Zoro standing in the shower: water trickling down over the swordsman’s muscled body, hands rubbing a white froth of bubbles over tanned skin.

And then seamlessly Sanji’s vision expanded to include himself standing in the shower too, his own hands gliding over that wet skin. Dropping low to grip onto Zoro’s hip bones, pulling the swordsman in till they were flush against each other, mouths finding each other, water trickling down -

“Going to the bar.” Zoro shifted beside him then stood up, looking around the table at them both.

Nami flicked her empty Tequila Sunrise pitcher with one finger and made it chime, bestowing a broad smile on the swordsman. “You read my mind.”

“How ‘bout you, cook?” Zoro nodded towards Sanji’s wine glass, which had only a half inch of Malbec left in it.

Sanji glanced at his unfinished drink, then smiled at the swordsman too. “Guess so.” Feeling a slight flush on his face at being roused from his erotic daydream, and wondering inwardly why he didn’t feel in much of a hurry to have a refill.

“Right,” Zoro grunted, looking over towards the packed-in crowd round the bar. “This could take a while.”

Watching his boyfriend make his way determinedly through the throng, Sanji found himself holding the stem of his wine glass. Slowly twirling the cool glass between the tips of his fingers.

“Boy, this place is totally packed tonight. Maybe we should’ve gone somewhere else.”

Nami’s voice pulled Sanji’s attention back. “...Hm?”

She regarded him. “Though it looks like some of us are already somewhere else.” She smiled wickedly at him. “Can’t wait till the two of you get home, huh?”

Sanji felt a blush start to come crawling across his face. “I wasn’t thinking that! I’m enjoying being here with you, sweetheart.”

“Uh huh. Okay then, what _were_ you thinking about? You looked miles away.”

“...Nothing.” Sanji gave her a small smile. “Just spacing out for a moment.”

She studied him. “You do look kind of tired.”

The chef let out a slight groan. “I am not ‘kind of tired’. I am _totally_ beat.”

“Then why are you working such crazy hours at the moment?” Nami scolded him. “You’ve been busy weekdays _and_ weekends, for weeks. You can’t keep up that kind of pace.”

“Bills to pay,” Sanji shrugged.

“Even so,” his friend insisted.

Letting out a small sigh, Sanji picked up his wine glass and knocked back the last mouthful. Felt the tannin taste turn harsh, rolling over his tongue and down his throat... and then felt his stomach give a little uneasy kick as the alcohol hit it.

_Ugh._

He blinked, and set down his wine glass. Feeling suddenly even more spacey: as if his head was filling up with smoke. His mouth was sour.

“Sanji?” Nami leaned in over the table. “Are you okay, hon?”

He turned his head to look at her, and the movement made the whole universe swim from side to side.

_Oh, no._

Sanji took a deep breath and pushed his empty glass away from him, across the table. “I need a cigarette.” Which was not what he needed, but he wanted to get up from the table straight away. Find somewhere quiet to stand and breathe with his eyes shut, maybe stop what felt like it was happening from happening.

He found himself on his feet, Nami looking up at him with concern. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” Her tone made it clear that she didn’t actually think what he was doing was okay. “If you’re not back in ten minutes I’ll come looking for you.”

Sanji managed to smile at her. “I’ll be fine, _chérie_. A little smoke break and some fresh air is all I need.”

It only took a minute to walk out of the bar and a few yards down the sidewalk, but by the time Sanji got there the thing he’d dreaded was already beginning. Squirming into the periphery of his vision: sparkling fractals, jagged curves of light and darkness beginning to shimmer inwards.

_Fucking hell._

Sanji propped himself against a wall beside the bar entrance. But instead of taking out his cigarettes and lighter, he raised one hand to his face, finger and thumb pressing against his closed eyelids. Seeing that same evil little fireworks display, the message his brain was sending him that he was about to be dragged into a gruelling rollercoaster ride.

_Not now._

Sanji opened his eyes and stared at the street: at traffic blurring past, transformed into moving lumps of noise and light that assaulted his senses. The world gradually warping into a place that hurt every way it touched him, as if he’d had a layer of skin ripped off.

The zigzagging visuals were slowly connecting up now, into a scintillating halo that framed everything he looked at. It was almost pretty, except it wasn’t: it looked and felt like a dream did just before it tipped over into nightmare. A looming sense of dread welling up inside him, because he was doomed and the only way out of this was by going through it.

There was no headache yet but it wouldn’t be long before that kicked in. Along with nausea, which Sanji could already feel riding at the back of his throat.

_Got to get out of here._

The need to escape was strong and irresistible. Sanji couldn’t evade what was coming, but he could avoid it happening right here in public: with a bar full of strangers wondering how much of a pisshead he was, to be to be throwing up like a drunk this early in the evening.

And underneath the familiar anxiety of not wanting to be the target for other people’s scorn or disapproval, was a much more basic urge: to retreat to where he could ride this out safely.

_Home dark quiet Not moving Home_

A car cut up another at the nearby intersection, causing a blaring of horns: Sanji felt the noise slice through him like broken glass. Every muscle in his body tensed.

_Oh fuck_

He blinked, then pushed himself away from the wall. Made himself walk slowly back into the bar, feeling like he was descending into Hades. His vision framed by coruscating darkness, only the centre still clear. People appearing two-dimensional, voices and music and clashing of glasses and bottles an abstract symphony that pierced his head.

He managed to reach their table, where Nami looked around as he sat down. Instantly her eyes widened. “Jesus, Sanji – you look like a ghost! What is it?”

Focussing on her made his brain hurt. “...Migraine.”

Nami’s face fell. “Oh _no_.” Her gaze travelled over him. “Just started?”

“Yeah.” Talking hurt, too. “Coming on fast though.”

“Shit.” Nami reached over the table, taking hold of his hand. “You got any Treximet or Maxolon on you?”

“No... At home.”

“Damn.” Nami bit her lower lip, before releasing his hand. “Then we need to get you home, soonest.” She picked up her phone. “I’ll call a cab.”

Sanji propped one elbow on the table, then let his head gingerly rest against his hand. Feeling increasingly nauseous and disorientated; but more than that, overwhelmed by frustration and embarrassment. Watching his friend typing into her phone, he spoke with an effort. “...Sorry, my sweet.”

Nami looked up sharply, an incredulous expression on her face. “What the hell are you apologising for?”

“Not much of a... fun birthday night out.”

His friend let out an explosive breath. “Don’t be a complete idiot. It’s not your fault you’re sick. You had no control over this.”

Sanji didn’t have the energy to argue. So he just gave her an apologetic smile, shading his eyes with his fingers from the lights of the bar. Nami gave him a severe look, before returning to working her phone. After a moment, she placed it on the table. “Okay. Cab’s on its way, should be here in ten. Are you sure you’ve got some meds at your place, or do you need to go via a pharmacy?”

“Definitely got some.” Sanji could visualise the oval blue tablets of Treximet, the white ones of Maxolon in his bathroom cabinet. They hung in his mind, a distant hope of relief.

“Okay. So get home, take some, get yourself into bed.” Nami reached out and took hold of his hand again, gave it a small squeeze. “Maybe it won’t be too bad.”

“...Yeah.” But Sanji could already tell it was going to be bad. When the visuals were intense, so was the subsequent migraine attack: and right now his vision was like the fourth of July.

Suddenly a hand set down a glass of red wine on the table beside him, followed by a Tequila Sunrise pitcher in front of Nami. And Zoro’s voice came loud through the bar noise, as the swordsman took a seat. “Thought I was gonna have to kill someone to get served. Bar’s fucking rammed.”

Nami looked at him. “You need to take Sanji home. He’s feeling bad.”

Zoro’s eyes switched onto the chef, brows drawing downwards. “Huh?” His frown deepened. “...You look like hell, cook.”

“Thanks.” Sanji managed a wry smile back at him.

“He’s getting a migraine. He needs to get home, fast as possible.” Nami was taking charge, efficiently. “There’s a cab on its way.”

“Cab?” Zoro appeared to be processing the sudden developments. “Uh... Okay. You need anything? Glass of water?”

Giving his boyfriend another half-hearted smile, Sanji made the smallest possible negative movement of his head. Which still was a bad idea. “Don’t bother... You head off to the bar again, we’ll have to send out a search party.”

Zoro regarded him for a moment. “Shit... Okay. How about some fresh air? We can wait for the cab outside.”

“Fine.” Sanji didn’t actually think this would help, but it had the advantage of getting him out of the seventh circle of hell that the bar had become.

Once he got to his feet though, it instantly became evident that walking outside was not an option. Cold sweat flooded onto his skin and he knew with absolute certainty that within the next minute he was going to throw up.

Turning away, he stepped past his boyfriend. “Going to the restroom - ” Getting this brief explanation out nearly instantly brought on what he was on the verge of doing.

Zoro’s hand reached out, whether to steady the chef or hold onto him Sanji didn’t know. He just managed to evade it and ducked into the crowd, elbowing his way through people with uncustomary lack of care for what impact he was having. Breathing heavily through his nose and pushing open the restroom’s swing door, then hurtling into the relative sanctuary of a blessedly empty stall and slamming the door shut... Before turning and vomiting into the toilet.

Sanji’s hands clutched the toilet seat: though his eyes were shut, fiery lights flashed in his vision. He heaved a second time, then a third; voiding the contents of his stomach uncontrollably.

When he was able to catch his breath, he was still clinging onto the toilet, bent double. His mouth was full of sourness and his throat hurt.

There was a quiet tapping at the stall door: someone knocking. “Oi... Cook?” Zoro, sounding concerned.

Sanji spat, then dragged a handful of tissue from the roll: used it to wipe his mouth. “...Mhm?”

“You okay in there?”

Sanji propped his head in his hands, shutting his watering eyes. “...Do I fucking sound okay?”

After a pause, Zoro’s voice came again. “Need any help?”

“Not right this moment.” Sanji focussed on breathing in and out. Feeling the nausea abating just a little: but pain coming on now, a slowly tightening band around his head. “...Ugh.”

“You want to open the door?” The swordsman sounded seriously bothered by his inability to see what was going on.

“Yeah... Give me a sec.” Sanji tore off more tissue and wiped his face. Before unsteadily standing up, and flushing the toilet. Only then did he turn around and unlock the door.

Zoro was standing with folded arms beside the stall: when he saw the chef, his eyes darkened. “Fuck...”

“I need to wash up.” Sanji walked to the washbasin and turned on the water: cupped some in his hands and splashed it onto his face.

“You gonna make it to the cab?”

“Is it here already?”

“Nami went out to meet it. She’ll tell the guy to wait.” Zoro was frowning now, his gaze running over his boyfriend. “She said this is a migraine... That right?”

“Uh huh.” Sanji slowly straightened up, before turning to the hand dryer on the wall: then thinking better of it. The noise would be unbearable.

Zoro regarded him for a moment: then stepped inside the nearest toilet stall, before returning to the chef’s side with a handful of toilet tissue. “Here. Use this.”

Grateful for the other man’s perceptiveness, Sanji used the tissue to blot himself passably dry. “Thanks.”

“You had this kind of thing before?”

“Yeah. I used to get them a lot.” Sanji let out a long, careful breath. “Not for a while, though.”

“There anything you can take for it?”

“I’ve got prescribed meds, at home.” Sanji clung to the image of those little blue and white pills. “I can take them as soon as we get there.”

Zoro nodded. “Okay. Then let’s get you there, before you pass out on the floor.”

“I’m not gonna pass out.” A clench of pain tightened in his head: Sanji pressed his hand against his temple. “But I’m totally in favour of getting the hell out of here.”

The cab was at the kerb when they go outside, Nami pacing on the pavement beside it. When she saw them, she laid a gentle hand on Sanji’s arm. “Oh god, you poor thing. Come on, get in the cab and get the hell home.”

“Thank you, _chérie._ I’m so sorry for messing up our night out.”

“Stop apologising, idiot: or I will smack you, migraine, or no migraine. We can catch up another time.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, before fixing her gaze on Zoro. “Look after him.”

The swordsman gave her a short nod, opening the cab door for his boyfriend. “Yeah, I will.”

“He needs to take his migraine meds when he gets home, and drink plenty of water.” Nami issued these instructions, a small frown pulling her eyebrows together. “Get him to bed as quick as possible. If he can sleep it’ll help.”

Zoro nodded again, before getting into the back seat of the cab alongside the chef and shutting the door.

“Your friend had a little too much to drink?” The driver peered at them in his rear-view mirror.

“No. He’s sick,” Zoro replied shortly.

“Fifty dollar surcharge for barfing in here,” warned the driver.

“How about you just start driving?” Zoro met the man’s eyes with a cold stare. The driver blinked and started his engine. Outside the window Nami waved, her face sober; then the car pulled away and they were heading downtown.

Zoro kept an eye on his boyfriend the whole ride home, but Sanji spent the journey leaning back with his eyes shut, a frown of pain dug in between his brows. Once or twice the chef winced when the cab braked hard: at one point the swordsman heard him draw in a long unsteady breath, a hand lifting to cover his mouth.

Speaking quietly, Zoro touched the chef’s knee. “How you doing?”

Breathing out carefully through his nose, the hand still covering his mouth, Sanji said nothing for a few moments. At last he lowered his hand. “...Crap.” His face looked pale in the dim light, shiny with sweat.

“Be back to yours soon. Hang in there.”

“Nghh...” Sanji kept his eyes shut.

When they reached the apartment block the chef walked inside with one hand shading his eyes, letting Zoro lead the way. Once inside the apartment, Sanji made a beeline for the bathroom, the swordsman on his heels.

From the doorway Zoro watched his boyfriend go straight to the bathroom cabinet without switching on the light and start searching through the contents of the shelves, fumbling in the dark. Reaching out Zoro flicked on the bathroom lightswitch, illuminating the room. “Can you see what you’re doing?”

“ _Aagh_ \- ” Sanji cringed, one hand flying up to cover his eyes. “Kill that fucking light, for chrissake!”

Zoro did so, feeling pretty stupid. “Sorry.”

“...Ugh.” Sanji stood for a moment in the darkened bathroom, his hand still covering his face. “...Fuck. Just, light: really not good, at the moment.”

Crossing to stand beside his boyfriend, Zoro dug out his phone and switched its LED torch on, using the tiny light to illuminate the bathroom cabinet. “Tell me what you’re trying to find in here, and I’ll get it for you.”

“Maxolon. And Treximet. White packets, with blue writing.” 

Scanning the shelves of the cabinet, Zoro spotted amongst the toiletries and disposable razors what he was looking for. He took out both packets of meds and switched the light off on his phone, before tapping the chef’s arm. “Here.”

Sanji uncovered his face enough to take the two packets of meds from the swordsman. “...Thanks.”

“What else do you need?”

“A glass of water.” Sanji let out an unsteady breath. “And a bucket, just in case the puke-orama isn’t over with yet.”

“I’ll get them. Go lie down, I’ll bring ‘em through.”

“Okay...” Sanji walked unsteadily out of the bathroom.

Zoro found a bucket in a kitchen cupboard, and was running water into a glass when his phone pinged to signal a message. He picked it up: Nami, checking up on them.

_‘U get him home OK? Hows he doing?’_

Zoro typed a quick reply. _‘Still feeling shitty. Got meds, gone to bed.’_

A moment later Nami texted again. _‘Best place for him. Hope its not too bad, will msg tomorrow see how hes doing then.’_

 _‘OK.’_ Pocketing his phone after sending this reply, Zoro headed through to Sanji’s bedroom.

The chef lay curled on his side on the bed, shoeless but still dressed. The room’s lights were all off: setting the bucket on the floor to one side, Zoro sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hey. Got some water here, you want to take those pills.”

Slowly Sanji uncurled and sat up, moving stiffly as if his joints hurt. He picked up one of the two packets of meds that lay on the bed beside him: pressed a tablet out of the pack and carefully took the glass of water the swordsman handed him; swallowed the medicine down with a grimace. “Mhh... Thanks.” Then the chef eased back down onto his side again, letting out a long breath.

“That gonna take the edge off?”

“Should fix the throwing up. Hopefully.” Sanji spoke almost in a whisper, as if it hurt to get words out. “Once I feel less nauseous I’ll take the other stuff, for the headache.”

“Okay.” Zoro regarded his boyfriend with a slight frown. “Maybe you should get undressed and into bed, get comfortable.”

The chef let out a groan. “Oh fuck... Comfortable is not gonna happen for a while. Believe me.”

“How long does one these things usually last?”

“If I’m lucky, a few hours... Worst case scenario, couple of days.” Sanji sighed unsteadily. “Nghh... Can we not talk, for a bit? Still feeling like I’m gonna puke.”

“Sure, cook. I’ll leave you in peace for a while.” The swordsman stood up; hesitated for a moment, then added, “Sorry you’re feeling shitty.”

“Mm. Me too.” Sanji sounded like getting these monosyllables out was an effort.

Leaving the chef in his darkened bedroom, Zoro retreated to the living room. Put on a lamp and sat down on the couch; put his mobile phone on the table; then sat back with folded arms and let out a long breath.

_Fuck. Great end to a night out._

It wasn’t an angry thought. At least, not angry with the chef. Migraines were a fucking curse; Zoro had co-workers who were sufferers, and his sympathies were totally with Sanji for being smitten this way. But the swordsman couldn’t help feeling pissed with the universe, unproductive though that was.

_One fucking weekend off. Is that too much to ask?_

Lifting one hand to rub through his hair, Zoro found his gaze travelling to the chef’s desk. Looking at the piles of paperwork there. Then travelling further, to the kitchen doorway.

Getting up, the swordsman went into the kitchen and glanced at the stacked heap of washed kitchenware: evidence of the long day Sanji had put in prepping food for _Bite Me_.

Tugging open the refrigerator door Zoro assessed its contents before extracting a beer stashed on the bottom shelf. Cracking it open, he wandered back into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch again. Considered watching some TV but abandoned the idea, unsure if the noise would disturb the chef.

A bookshelf against one wall drew Zoro to investigate, bearing books on topics ranging from cooking and marine life to queer history and Arabic art. He selected a thick white-covered hardback titled _Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan’s Food Culture_ , and spent a while leafing through its pages: looking at the photos without really seeing them.

After a while the sound of the bathroom door closing reached him. A few minutes later it opened again and footsteps could be heard walking back to the bedroom. Setting the book aside Zoro stood up and headed in the same direction.

The bedroom was still dark, Sanji once again lying still-dressed on the bed: this time on his back, with an arm over his face. Zoro tapped gently on the open door with his knuckle to announce his presence, before speaking quietly. “Oi... How you doing?”

“...Ugh.” Sanji took a breath, then released it. “Not so nauseous. Head feels like an ice pick’s stuck through it.” His voice was barely raised above a whisper, roughened at the edges with pain. 

“You take that other stuff?”

“Just now.” The chef shifted his head slightly. “Takes a while to kick in.”

“When it does, maybe you’ll get some sleep.”

“Fucking hope so.”

Zoro came to the bedside, looking down on his boyfriend. “Want a hand getting undressed, so you can get under the covers?”

“M’not fucking paralysed,” Sanji muttered.

“Great.” Zoro sat on the edge of the bed, his hip nudging against the other man’s. “C’mon, cook. Best offer you’re gonna get tonight.”

“...Asshole.” But after a moment the chef slowly pushed himself into sitting up.

In the end Sanji didn’t need much help, other than letting the swordsman take his clothes to put away.

“...Make sure you hang that shirt up without any creases, moss-head.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to fucking sleep.” Zoro bent over the bed and planted a light kiss on his boyfriend’s brow. The chef’s skin felt clammy with sweat. “Want me to put the fan on in here?”

“Mm. Please.”

The swordsman switched the small electric fan on before leaving the room, softly shutting the door behind him.

There being not much else to do except read and drink beer, Zoro soon decided to put an end to a shitty night by getting some sleep himself. Which meant crashing on the couch, because he didn’t want to risk disturbing Sanji.

There was cushion on one chair which he grabbed for a pillow, and hunting around the living room he found a throw which would serve as a coverlet. After turning out the light he shucked off all his clothes but his shorts and stretched out on the couch, which turned out to be shorter than he was tall. Zoro punched the cushion flat and curled on his side under the throw, hoping that the beer buzz would put him under soonest.

* * * * * *

When Sanji woke it was daylight. Not that he opened his eyes at first: but through his closed eyelids he could sense that his bedroom was no longer dark. There was a heaviness in his chest and a deep reluctance to come up into consciousness, that kept him in a hazy half-awake state for some indeterminate amount of time.

At last his body began checking in, nudging him further up through the veils of sleep. A vague aching in his muscles and head; a hollow feeling in his stomach. And finally, a full sensation in his bladder which eventually forced him to surface all the way and roll groaning onto one side in bed, before creeping out on a bathroom mission.

His eyes only wanted to open halfway. The light felt too much, and when he flushed the toilet the noise sent a slight jolt through his body. He moved to the washbasin and ran water over his hands for several seconds, groggily mesmerised by the sensation. Mechanically he cupped some of the water and splashed it over his face, letting out a breath at the shock of coolness.

Straightening up with his hands propped on the basin, Sanji squinted into the mirror, blinking.

_Ugh._

His face peered back at him, pale and crumpled like a used handkerchief. Dark shadows underlined his squinting eyes; his hair was tousled and sticking in all directions. Sanji regarded himself for a half minute or so, then sighed.

His head still hurt. Not in that blinding, _please-let-me-die-soon_ way it had last night: the sharp pain had eased off to a dull ache in his temples. Hopefully the worst of the migraine attack was over, although Sanji knew from bitter experience that if he didn’t go gently for the next few hours he could trigger a fresh one.

Now he just felt like mugging victim. His whole body felt sore, as if he had a mild dose of ‘flu. The headache was accompanied by a fuzzy inability to think, his brain unable to boot up yet after the shock it had been through. He felt simultaneously thirsty, a little nauseous, and vaguely craving carbohydrates.

_Postdrome._ When Sanji’s doctor had first introduced him to the word, way back in his late teens when he first started with these fucking migraines, he’d thought it had sounded like something from a science fiction novel. Unfortunately it was all too fucking real.

After partying too hearty the night before, you got a hangover. After suffering through a killer migraine, you got the postdrome. The way it had been explained to him, it was basically his brain recovering from trauma: as if he was someone who’d had a head injury. It could last a day, or a week. And while it lasted, Sanji felt like a recovering stroke victim. Mental fogginess made finding words and having conversations challenging. His body felt like it belonged to a centenarian. His appetite would disappear, or he’d have weird cravings for junk food. Doing normal everyday tasks took Herculean amounts of effort.

Sanji stared at his sorry-looking self in the mirror for a minute or so more, before summing up his feelings by releasing a small, weary sigh. Then he turned and plodded slowly back to his bedroom and spent a long time trying to figure out what to do next.

Once he’d eventually opted for getting dressed – in a pair of PJ trousers and a loose t-shirt – Sanji ventured on a slightly wobbly course to the kitchen. The hollowness in his stomach might be improved by drinking something; and if that went without incident, he would maybe try to eat something too.

His eyes still half-shut and focussed on his kitchen goal, he didn’t really take in anything around him en route. Once the kettle had boiled and he’d made a mug of peppermint tea with a teaspoon of honey in it, he retreated to the living room to curl up on the couch... Only to be confronted by the sight of Zoro lying on it, half-covered with a throw and fast asleep.

Sanji blinked at his boyfriend, before moving to one of the armchairs and sitting down on that instead. He took a small sip of hot, sweet peppermint tea and tried not to feel guilty about the fact that he’d forgotten that Zoro would still be here. Or no, he hadn’t exactly _forgotten:_ he’d been so out of it after he crawled into bed last night that the whereabouts of his boyfriend hadn’t even been on his radar.

The chef had a dim memory of Zoro helping him in the bedroom... Helping him into bed? He couldn’t fix the memory, last night was a collage of jerky film-clip images, edited together in painful flashes of light and murky darkness. Nami’s worried expression. Throwing up in the toilet at the Rip Off. Concentrating on his breathing in the cab to keep himself from throwing up again. Zoro’s regretful face caught for a second in the glare of the bathroom light, before he switched it off.

The peppermint tea seemed to be going down okay. Sanji took another small sip, and released a slow outbreath.

Somehow that small sound was enough to penetrate the swordsman’s sleep: a frown passed through Zoro’s features, and one hand twitched. Then he hitched himself over onto his side and opened his eyes, letting out a yawn. His gaze found the chef sitting in the armchair.

Sanji gave him a small smile. “Morning.”

Pushing himself upright with one arm and massaging the back of his neck with the other hand, Zoro let out another yawn. “...Mornin’.” He swung his feet off the couch and pushed back the rumpled throw, rubbing his hand across his face this time. “Hhn. Time’s’it?”

“Not sure.” Sanji wrapped his hands around the warmth of his mug.

Zoro circled his shoulders, wincing slightly, then leaned across and picked up his pants from the floor: found his phone and turned it on. “...Eh. Comin’ up to noon.”

Sanji didn’t really know what to do with this information. Right now in his befuddled postdrome state, clock time felt pretty meaningless. But he felt some response was called for. “Oh.” And a few seconds later, managed to supplement this with an equally inane, “Late.”

“How you doing this morning?” Zoro regarded him speculatively. “You still look kinda out of it.”

“I’m... Yeah. Better.” Sanji struggled to reclaim vocabulary from his foggy brain. “Least, migraine’s almost gone. Just... feeling kind of uggish.”

Zoro nodded, still looking at him. “You get any sleep?”

“Some. Yeah.” Sanji looked at the rumpled throw on the couch, and felt a pang of guilt again. “How come you crashed out here?”

The swordsman shrugged. “Figured you probably needed some space.”

It made sense. Sanji sweating and fidgeting in bed with pain wouldn’t have made for much of a good night’s sleep for his boyfriend. “Thanks for staying. Sorry you wound up on the couch.”

“Slept in worse places.” One corner of Zoro’s mouth hitched up briefly.

“You could’ve gone back home.”

Zoro’s brows drew together quizzically. “Didn’t seem like you were in a good state to be left on your own.”

Giving his boyfriend a wry smile, Sanji cradled his mug against his chest. “I know it looks bad, when I get a migraine attack. But I’m used to them... Long as I can get to bed soonest, I can ride it out.”

“...Uh huh.” Zoro seemed about to say something else; then stopped. Instead he stood up and pulled on his pants, stretching. “Nghh. Think I need coffee. You want anything?”

The chef pointed silently at his own mug, smiling and shaking his head.

When the swordsman returned from the kitchen he pulled on his red shirt, leaving it unbuttoned; roughly folded up the throw and sat down on the couch, sipping his coffee. Sanji in the meantime had managed to retrieve his own phone and check it for messages from Nami (two anxious enquiries this morning, which he replied to with apologies and hearts and sorry-face emojis). That done he returned to finishing his peppermint tea, eyes drifting shut in the quietness of the space.

“Oi, cook. You okay?”

Zoro’s voice jolted him from his semi-trance. Sanji opened his eyes again and gave the swordsman a quick smile. “...Yeah. Just zoning out for a moment.”

“You want something to eat? Or is that a bad idea?”

“No, it helps. I’ll eat something in a little while.” Something sweet and small and light, that he could eat almost without thinking about it. Give himself a blood sugar hit and help his brain to reboot.

“You need to take any more meds?”

“Hopefully not.” Sanji shook his head gently. “What I took last night usually works. Just leaves me kinda spacey afterwards for a while.”

Zoro nodded, watching him. After a short pause the swordsman suggested, “I ought to head home, leave you to chill out. You look like you could use some more sleep.”

Sanji wanted to say, _No, stay._ But a reality check stopped him from saying it out loud. He was groggy and wiped and stupid with postdrome brainfog: all he really wanted was to curl up and rest and not have to talk. Which wouldn’t exactly be fun for Zoro, if he hung around. “...Um, yeah. Guess so.”

“You gonna be okay on your own?”

“I’ll be fine.” Sanji gave his boyfriend a small smile. “But hey: sorry for being a crappy host.”

Zoro gave him a sardonic look. “Not like you planned to get sick, dumbass.” As if to soften this, he reached out and lightly touched the chef’s shoulder; then turned away. “Gonna get my shit together, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Zoro showered and was gone by early afternoon, leaving Sanji curled up on the sofa under the throw his boyfriend had used as a bedcover. He felt too tired to deal with what he was feeling, which was mostly a messy tangle of regrets for Nami’s aborted birthday night out and frustration at his body’s shortcomings.

After a while the cravings for carbohydrates grew overwhelming, so he went foraging in the kitchen. His gaze lit on the tin he’d put the _bouchons de Langedoc_ biscuits in. In the fridge was a quart of milk.

Back on the couch Sanji sipped and nibbled, focussing on the basic comfort of food. Milk and cookies, like he was a fucking five year-old. But hey: it worked. The familiar taste of the biscuits, their sweet crunchy crumbling and melting in his mouth, the cool soothing slide of milk down his throat... His body needed something sweet, and needed rehydrating, and needed soothing. The milk and biscuits ticked all those boxes.

The postdrome headache was still there, so after he’d snacked Sanji washed down some paracetamol and curled up again on the couch under the throw. And went out like a fucking light.

He was dreaming, maybe. He felt too hot, the air was warm and muggy.

_Sleeping in the afternoon. I should get the fan._

Yet when he sat up in bed he was not an adult: he was six years old. Sitting up in the dark in the little seaside apartment he and his _maman_ shared, in the middle of the hot August night: staring into the darkness and trying to see, trying to hear what had woken him up. Was it a nightmare?

_(No it’s a dream. Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up)_

A sound, muffled but frightening: coming from the bathroom. His mother, sobbing or gasping or both.

Sanji got out of the sofa bed and the tile floor felt smooth and cool under his hot little feet. He didn’t want to move, he was scared to move, but he walked on tiptoe to the bathroom door. Something dropped on the floor inside and he jumped. Then more muffled gasps, sobs, whatever they were his mother was making them and his stomach clenched into a sour knot. His heart was jumping in his chest now and he had both hands clenched in fists against it to try to stop the thumping, as he asked in a small voice, _“_ _Maman?”_

Sudden silence. Then scuffling sounds, and a dull _clunk_ _._ His mother had just locked the bathroom door.

Her voice came through the wood, strained and quiet. “It’s all right, little chick. Go back to bed.”

 _“_ _Maman?”_ Sanji knew it wasn’t all right. His hand came out and patted the door, making small thuds. “I need to pee.” He didn’t, but this was the magic phrase he knew: tell an adult you needed to piss and it got you out of class, into toilets, opened doors.

The door stayed shut. After a moment, Sora’s voice came again. “I won’t be long, Sanji. Go back to bed.”

“But I need to _pee_.” The magic word wasn’t working. And now Sanji really did need to pee, he could feel fear filling him up and not leaving any room inside. “ _Maman_ , let me in, I need to pee, let me _in_.” He kept beating his hand gently against the door, drumming a soft tattoo of urgency. He had to make his mother open the door, had to -

The lock clicked and the door opened. And Sora stood there turned away from him, gesturing behind her at the toilet. “Okay, come in and pee. Quickly now.” Though the door was open her voice still sounded muffled: she had one hand up shielding her face.

Sanji stepped inside and then froze, his feet sticking to the floor. Because although his mother had turned away he could see her face reflected in the mirror. And her face was misshapen and dark, blotched red and purple - his _maman_ had somehow transformed into a monster, her eyes puffed into slits.

_(Wake up Wake up Wake up Wake up)_

Sanji wailed at the monster in the mirror, the grotesque face that was and wasn’t his mother. Then Sora turned around and took hold of his shoulders, and said in a strange clumsy muffled voice through puffy swollen monster lips, “Shhh, shhh, little chick. I’m all right. Quiet now, please, _chéri_. It’s all right, don’t be scared.”

Sanji shivered and shook. He’d wet himself. But the hands holding him were gentle and the smell was his _maman_ ’s perfume and the voice was hers, it was definitely Sora holding him.

“Something happened. I had an accident.” His mother kept talking in that same low, urgent, soothing voice. “I got a little bit hurt. But I’m all right, _chéri_. Everything’s going to be okay.”

She kept saying it, while she helped Sanji change his wet pyjamas and put him back into bed. And she left the bathroom door open so he could hear her while she showered, calling to him that everything was going to be all right. And she said it again when she came to sit on the edge of the bed wearing a clean shirt, her hair hanging in damp straggling locks around her puffy, bruised face. One hand smoothing Sanji’s own hair, the other pressed to her chest as if she was holding herself.

“ _Maman_.” Sanji’s voice came out small, as if a giant had closed his throat in a fist. “What kind of accident?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Go to sleep, _chéri_. Everything will be all right.”

It didn’t make sense and his mother’s words didn’t make the fear go away. “Was it an accident in a car?” Sanji knew people could get hurt in car crashes.

“Yes. That’s what it was.” Sora’s voice sounded relieved, exhausted. “I should have been wearing my seat belt.”

“Did the car driver get hurt too?” Sanji knew his mother couldn’t drive. That’s why they didn’t have a car, she’d always said.

There was a pause, while Sora’s hand stroked and stroked his hair. At last she said, “No. He didn’t get hurt.”

Sanji let her hand stroking his head take him into sleep then. Let her touch make everything frightening that had happened in the middle of the night go away.

_(Wake up Wake up wake up WAKE UP)_

And suddenly Sanji was wide awake, really awake this time. Sweat sticking his t-shirt to his body, throw tangled over him as he lay on his couch in his apartment. He was sitting up and holding his face in his hands before he knew what he was doing, taking slow steadying breaths as his arms trembled and his heart hammered under his ribs.

After a minute or so, he lowered his hands and gazed across the room. Trying to ground himself by looking at his surroundings. The bookshelf. The TV. The framed photograph of manta rays swimming in their turquoise ocean. Gradually he felt the tight feeling in his chest subside.

_Fuck._

It had been a long while since he’d woken with a panic attack like that. And from that fucking nightmare, too.

The shadowy memory of of his mother’s battered face reflected in the mirror rose up in his mind. Sanji shuddered and breathed out long and slow, trying to dispel the image.

_Jesus... What brought that on?_

His gaze fell on the empty glass and plate he’d left on the floor, after his snack.

Standing up unsteadily, Sanji made for the kitchen. Took down the tin which still held a few of the _bouchons de Languedoc_ , and headed to the kitchen bin. Taking off the biscuit tin’s lid, for a moment he hesitated – then emptied the remaining biscuits into the trash. For good measure, he shook the bin so that the biscuits became mixed into the garbage and were no longer visible.

_There._

Sanji swilled out the empty biscuit tin so that not even crumbs were left, and stacked it on the dish drainer alongside all his washing up from the day before. He returned to the living room and glanced at the couch, considering whether to curl up there again with a book: but his head still felt like an overinflated balloon, floaty and fragile. Picking up his mobile phone and switching it off he decamped to his bedroom, where he drew his shades against the late afternoon sunlight and let himself sink back into heavy – and this time dreamless – sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> Au diable tout ça = Hell with that  
> Ça y est = I'm done (with the day's work) [This is a weird French idiom to translate, 'cos it means lots of slightly different things, depending on the context]
> 
> General author notes:  
> I am really putting Sanji through it, I know... But he's becoming his own worst enemy. Perfectionists suffer, partly because they set themselves such high standards. And Nami is right on the money: no-one can work killer hours without it doing a number on them. Sorry for any migraine sufferers out there who read this chapter and grimaced: I get gnarly migraines myself occasionally, so I know whereof I write. Darkness, sleep and painkillers are the only things that help. Ugh.
> 
> As ever, big love and immense gratitude to all you readers. (And sorry for ratcheting up the angst on y'all. I do love me a big heap of angst.) <3 <3 <3


	8. Closer To The Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oi, cook.” Zoro raised a hand in greeting.
> 
> Sanji looked up with a slightly harassed look, then did a double-take. “Oh. Thought you were working late tonight?”
> 
> “Caught a break, someone took my evening shift for me.” Zoro leant on Bite Me's counter and gave his boyfriend a smile. “How was your day?”
> 
> “Okay... Busy for a couple hours, over lunch.” The chef stowed away a container of sauces in a refrigerator, then rinsed the cloth he’d been using to wipe the counter.
> 
> “Cool. Maybe things are picking up.” Zoro tried to be encouraging.
> 
> “I can’t keep the bank happy with maybes.” Sanji came out of the stall, folded up the front counter, then secured it into place. “I need it to be busy all day, not just for a couple of hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: homophobic hatespeech; slut-shaming.

* * *

_Everything you say to me  
Takes me one step closer to the edge  
And I'm about to break  
I need a little room to breathe  
'Cause I'm one step closer to the edge  
I'm about to break_

_\- Linkin Park_

* * *

The summer heatwave that choked the city dragged on for another two weeks, finally breaking with a thunderstorm which slaked the dust but heralded in an extra burden of humidity to the streets.

At Flex gym, many of Zoro’s regular clients took off on long summer vacations... But extra classes began, as timetables switched into their seasonal holiday mode to cater more for families needing a thousand-and-one ways to distract their offspring through school break. Some of the gym staff had booked holiday time off too, leaving the gym short-staffed: all of which combined to make Zoro’s work life more of a pain in the ass.

“They’ve stuck me with... goddamn overtime... every week... till the end of August... Fuckers.” Zoro pronounced this vehemently between breaths, while doing sit-ups in the park’s outdoor fitness area.

“Maybe that means they think you do a good job, so they’re giving you more work.” Sanji was running through cool-down stretches on the ground, after their run to the park.

“Yeah, right.” Zoro did his final sit-up with a forceful exhale, then flopped back to lay prone on the grass. “Or maybe they’re too fuckin’ tight to spring for temporary summer staff to cover all the assholes who decided to take their vacations simultaneously.”

Sanji lay on his back on the ground and gazed up at the blue summer sky, drifted with clouds. “Whenever you talk about that place lately, you’re always bitching about it.”

“Who doesn’t bitch about their job?” the swordsman grunted.

“If you hate what you’re doing that much, maybe you could try finding something else.”

“Don’t hate it. Just don’t like it.”

“So work at something you _do_ like.” 

“Can’t be a kendo instructor till I’ve passed godan. Soonest I can start working for Takahashi is new year.”

The chef groaned, draping one arm over his eyes. “Fuck. It’s gonna be a long six months.”

Zoro reached sideways and nudged the chef with his elbow. “Thanks for the encouragement, wiseass.”

“Oh, sorry: was I supposed to be encouraging?” Sanji smirked, lowering his arm. “Yay, go for it. I’m picturing you right now as a noble and inspiring kendo sensei.”

The swordsman grunted. “Fuck you.”

“Didn’t you say Takahashi would be putting you in charge of beginners when he takes you on? Like, a bunch of fifth graders whacking each other upside the head? Sounds like a bundle of fun.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“Hope those kids’ parents aren’t too fond of their offspring. Try not to make too many of ‘em cry.”

“I’m good with kids.”

“Yeah; I guess they’re about your level, intellectually.”

The swordsman rolled over swiftly and flung himself on top of the chef, pinning his arms to the ground. “Okay, that’s it, shitty cook - Imma whoop yo ass.”

“Like fuck - ” Sanji struggled to break the hold his boyfriend had on his wrists, but Zoro’s grip was like iron. The chef tried pushing up with his legs instead, which produced a grin on the face of the man lying on top of him.

“You want to wriggle like that some more, works for me.”

“Get off me, craphead!” Sanji felt himself flushing red in the face.

“Get you off? No problem.” Zoro lowered his head and shut his boyfriend up with the simple expedient of kissing him hard. Backed up with considerable body-to-body contact as well.

When he was finally able to get some breathing space, Sanji was half annoyed and half aroused. There was grass poking him in the back where his t-shirt had ridden up in their grappling, and he’d managed to wrestle one hand free. He used it to grip Zoro’s waist and shove him sideways. “ _Down,_ boy."

“What am I, a Labrador?”

“You’d be easier to train if you were.” Sanji wriggled upwards, freeing his top half and giving the swordsman a warning nudge with his knee. “Shit, you’re heavy. Get off.”

Rolling off sideways and leaning up onto his elbow, Zoro gave him a sly grin. “You were getting into it too, seemed like.”

“You and me are going to have a serious discussion at some point, about your obsession for having sex in public. The first step to dealing with a problem is admitting you have one.”

“You gonna admit you have a boner, right now?”

Sanji twisted onto his stomach, his face crimson. Hoping the solid ground would subdue the semi in his shorts, so he could get up and wipe the smirk off the swordsman’s face. “Asshole.”

After a minute or so the chef felt safe enough to sit up. He aimed a kick at his boyfriend’s leg. “Pervert moss.”

“Hah.” Zoro sounded unbothered to be guilty as charged. “We gonna head back soon?”

“If there were any ladies watching us just then, I will kick your ass.”

“Bring it.”

It was a short walk down the path that led away from the outdoor gym equipment to the main part of the park; they continued to trade semi-amiable insults en route. The chef and swordsman drew near a bench where three younger guys were hanging out smoking: as they walked past, there was a noticeable burst of sniggering.

Sanji tuned it out, with a momentary roll of his eyes: kept on walking. Then a voice followed them, all edge and sneer. “...Fuckin’ fags.”

Zoro stopped suddenly, swinging around to look back at the group round the bench. “Fuck you say?”

Sanji turned round too, backing him up. Scanning the knot of youths, assessing the threat.

One shithead with a crewcut and a Nike baseball cap eyed Zoro with a curled lip. “You sack-suckers groping on the grass are _nasty_. Whyn’tcha take it indoors so we don’t have to look at your homo asses.”

“Look the other way if you can’t handle it, retard. And by the way: _fuck you_, and your lame-ass friends.” Zoro folded his arms across his chest, holding the youth’s gaze.

Nike Guy bristled, getting to his feet. “No, fuck you, fag!”

Stepping up beside his boyfriend, Sanji regarded the bench of youths. “Hate to break it to you sadcases: but, homophobia? _So_ lasterday. Get with the programme, or stay the fuck out of public spaces.”

“You’re the ones oughta get the fuck out of here. ‘Less you want your faggot asses kicked.” Nike Guy shot his buddies a quick look, for confirmation.

“Oh, please.” Sanji took out his lighter and a cigarette; lit up, and blew a dismissive cloud of smoke in their direction. “Make one move and we’ll make sure you fuckers wind up explaining your antiquated prejudices to the cops. _After_ we enjoy kicking the holy shit out of you.” And he gave them a predatory smile.

Nike Guy took an indecisive half-step forward, then back again. Zoro unfolded his arms, his hands closed into fists. “Last chance to do the smart thing.” His voice came out a low growl.

There was about a five-second pause, where some serious thinking evidently occurred. At last, Nike Guy backed off. “...Shit.” He and his friends abandoned the bench and shuffled away. As they moved off, Nike Guy flung a parting shot. “Fuck you pair of cunts!”

The chef and the swordsman watched them go. Sanji released a smoky sigh, and flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “Holy shit.”

Zoro kept his gaze on the departing youths, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Some people are a waste of air.”

“You said it.” Sanji sighed again, shrugging and rolling his shoulders, trying to shake out the tension. “Wow... Been a while since I last had to deal with something like that.”

The swordsman grunted, still watching their abusers walk away. “It’s on the rise, this sort of shit. Rednecks been coming out the woodwork lately.”

“Depressing thought. But yeah, you’re right.” The chef gave his boyfriend a sidelong look. Zoro was still standing poised for action, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensed. Ready to fight.

Parking his cigarette in his mouth, Sanji slid his right arm through Zoro’s left, linking them together. “Don’t let it fuck up your day. That way they’ve won.”

The swordsman let out a long breath: then turned his head and met the chef’s gaze. “...Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted, just for a moment.

“C’mon.” Sanji tugged their linked arms. “Let’s head back to my place and have some lunch.”

When they reached the chef’s apartment building Sanji checked his mailbox. “Junk mail, junk mail, an invitation to apply for a new credit card – ha, if they only knew! – junk mail... And a letter from my leasing company, oh joy.” He bundled all the mail into one hand and led the way to the stairs.

Up in his apartment he tossed most of the mail into the recycling box in the kitchen, leaving only the lease company envelope aside. “I’ll just see what this is, then I’ll start lunch. You hungry?”

“Uh huh.” Zoro pulled open the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice, chugging it straight from the spout.

“ _Glass_ , you slob.” Sanji plonked a tumbler on the kitchen table, before tearing open the envelope. “I’m gonna make omelettes, use up those mushrooms. Do you want bread with yours?”

“Yeah. Please.” The swordsman picked up the glass and filled it with juice: sank it all, and refilled the glass again.

“Okay. And a green salad...” Sanji unfolded the sheets of paper from the envelope and began reading. As he did so his eyes first narrowed, then widened. “... _Merde!”_

Zoro looked at his boyfriend. “S’up?”

“You have to be fucking _kidding_ me.” The chef was staring from one sheet of paper to the other, a frown of disbelief dug in between his brows. “No fucking way. No no _no_...” He put them both on the table and leaned with both hands on the edge, breathing hard.

Frowning now too, Zoro glanced at the paperwork, then turned his gaze back to the chef. “What the hell is it? They evicting you or something?”

“No.” Sanji spoke in a stifled-sounding voice. “Invoice for repairs. For replacing that broken security shutter on my unit.”

“They’re billing you for that?” Zoro raised an eyebrow. “They got some balls. That thing cost you a bundle, paying to get your back fixed after you threw it out.”

“They say that I’m liable. That my responsibility for all running repair costs is included in the conditions of my lease.”

“Shit... That true?”

The chef’s hands tightened on the table until they were white-knuckled. “I don’t remember, specifically. That leasing agreement is, like, twenty pages of fine print.”

Zoro considered this. “Maybe you should check.”

“No shit.” Sanji breathed out between clenched teeth.

The swordsman watched him. After a carefully-judged moment of silence, he said quietly, “Go do what you hafta do, cook. Lunch can wait.”

It took a while for the chef to find the original lease paperwork and pore over it until he found the clauses about repair costs. Zoro took up station on the couch, electing to keep quiet until more information was forthcoming.

“ _C’est des conneries_... Oh, you bastards.” Sanji had one hand clenched in his hair now, sitting at his desk with his laptop open and paperwork strewn in front of him. “You fucking, fucking, bastards.”

Not needing to ask if the chef’s perusal of the lease had yielded positive results, Zoro watched him stab his fingers against laptop keys and peer at the screen. “So they’re gonna sting you for repairs.”

“ _Yes_.” Sanji appeared to be scanning back and forth between the lease company’s invoice and several spreadsheets on his laptop.

“How much?”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars for the new security shutter.”

“Whoa... Shit.”

“Plus labour.” Sanji sounded crazed. “Another six hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Nearly a grand and a half? To fix a goddamn _door?”_ Zoro was staggered by this. “You sure they haven’t added on an extra zero?” 

“I’ve read it twenty times. I’m pretty fucking sure.”

There was a short silence, as the swordsman processed this. “When do they need paying by?”

“23rd August.”

“Month from now... Guess that gives you some time.”

“Yeah, right. I should be able to pull off a couple of bank jobs between now and then.” Sanji stared at his laptop keyboard, grimacing at the spreadsheets on the screen. “Fucking _shit_.” He appeared to be searching for some hidden message, something that would defuse the bombshell that had just landed. Whatever he was seeking, it didn’t seem to be there: after a minute or so he abandoned the search and sat slumped at his desk, face propped in his hands.

Zoro got up from the couch and came to stand beside him. “Oi. Cook.”

“Mmh.” The sound that escaped the chef’s hands was muffled.

“How much you short?”

“All of it.” Sanji’s voice, still muffled, sounded exhausted.

“Uh?”

“I don’t have fourteen hundred dollars. I was gonna have to max out my credit card to pay next month’s rent.”

“You must be making _some_ money. You’re working every goddamn hour you can.”

Sanji dropped his arms onto the desk and pushed himself to sit upright, before fixing the swordsman with a look. “That pays for the monthly bank loan repayments. And food supplies for _Bite Me_ and catering jobs. And take-out packaging. And utilities, and business tax. And public liability insurance. And the million and one _other_ things you have to fork out for when you run your own business.” His tone was growing angry.

“Okay; I get it.”

“You think I’m working seventy hour weeks for the hell of it?” The chef gestured at his laptop. “I keep fucking explaining to you: income from the stall is way down over the summer. I’ve got outgoings every damn month – it’s only ‘cos I’m taking those extra catering jobs that _Bite Me_ hasn’t gone under!”

“Fine. Do what you have to.” Zoro kept his voice quiet. “Not arguing with that.”

“Jesus.” Sanji picked up the repair invoice again. “On top of everything else, _this_ is the last fucking thing I needed.”

“Maybe if you ask they’ll give you more time to pay.”

“Maybe.” Sanji propped his forehead on one hand, staring at the invoice.

Zoro watched his boyfriend. Seeing the stress filling the other man’s body, crackling off him like static. “I’ve got some money in the bank. Only a couple hundred, but it’s there if you want it.”

“Thanks.” Sanji’s reply was lacklustre. “That’s... No. But thanks, anyway.”

Two hundred dollars wasn’t going to solve the chef’s problems, Zoro knew. But it was all the money he had. And he didn’t know what else to do. Sanji’s shoulders were drawn up, one knee jiggling restlessly.

Without letting himself think too much, Zoro put his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Not saying anything. Just trying to let him know with the touch that he wasn’t alone in this.

Sanji sighed. His knee stilled, his hand lifting up to meet the swordsman’s. But he didn’t look up. And a few seconds later, his hand fell back to the desk.

After a half minute or so, Zoro took his hand away too. Feeling pretty fucking useless.

* * * * * *

For Sanji, the next two weeks passed in a fugue of anxiety. He spent the Sunday after receiving the repair bill number-crunching, along with composing a hopefully not too unprofessional-sounding email where he essentially begged the leasing company to let him pay the bill in instalments. Not that this would massively help: he was already only just meeting his monthly outgoings.

He’d sent the email and the reply came back the next day: invoice to be settled in full, by the date shown. He hadn’t expected any other answer, but reading it still twisted the knot in his stomach a little tighter.

On the surface he was holding things together. He still had to do each day’s prep and cooking; be cheerful and responsive at _Bite Me_ , and serve the customers he had so that they’d keep coming back. He took two more catering bookings online for upcoming weekends. There were still supplies that needed ordering and menus that needed planning, and he kept on top of that.

Apart from that, he was a mess. Evenings were spent staring at his laptop and turning over various ideas for raising cash quickly, none of which were workable. Too often he found himself still up at one AM, smoking his fortieth cigarette of the day and scribbling increasingly illegible ideas on a notepad. _Brainstorming,_ they called it: _blue sky thinking_. To Sanji there wasn’t even the faintest fucking flicker of blue, everything was obscured by deep grey thunderclouds. And the only brainstorm that was happening was his mental faculties shortcircuiting for lack of sleep and escape from his frenzied thoughts.

He tried to avoid getting into it with Zoro or friends. With Nami he limited his communications to brief cheerful texts or short phone chats; kept things light when Usopp dropped by _Bite Me_ for his regular caffeine fix. But this effort to be upbeat despite the sword of Damocles hanging over him took so much energy that he felt exhausted by the time he got home... Where he found himself unable to do much except scan emails and slog through paperwork.

Waking up at dawn most days, Sanji sat with a coffee and a cigarette watching the sun rise. Wishing the world would go away; just for a while, so he could get some fucking sleep.

For Zoro, watching his boyfriend struggling was frustrating as hell, with no real clue as to how he could help. He didn’t have the kind of cash necessary to bail the chef out; but he tried to do what he could to let Sanji know he was there to help anyway. However that worked... Like making sure his boyfriend took a night off and had a break from fretting about all this shit 24/7.

Zoro had attempted this already, but he had been less than successful. After the chef had opened that fucking letter it was like he’d stepped through an invisible wall that Zoro couldn’t breach. They’d been together in the same room, sitting on the same couch, but Sanji had been distracted; edgy. Not wanting to talk. Restlessly switching on his laptop to watch a film, only to switch it off again half an hour later.

Talking stuff out had never been one of Zoro’s strong points, but he made an effort now because talking was something the chef _did_ do. Except, since opening that letter, he didn’t. After the initial meltdown when he’d let out a stream of swearwords in English and French, Sanji hadn’t wanted to talk about it. At _all_. That invisible wall went up and kept Zoro at a distance.

Two weeks after the repair bill bombshell landed, a minor miracle in the form of one of Zoro’s co-workers asking for extra Friday hours led to Zoro being able to trade off his evening cardio class. Which meant the swordsman was able to get out from the gym early and walk across the city to meet Sanji at _Bite Me_ after work.

Given the chef’s current money worries, Sanji was unlikely to want to go out partying: but Zoro hoped to at least pursue a distraction agenda by suggesting they went back to his and Luffy’s place for pizza and movies. Anything rather than go back to Sanji’s apartment and watch him lose himself in paperwork again. Zoro was no expert on mental health, but he knew his boyfriend seriously needed a break.

The problem would be convincing the chef of that. Since this workaholic phase had kicked in a month or so previous, they’d been spending less time together. Now, even in the time they _did_ spend together, it felt like they were out of synch.

_How do people handle this kinda stuff, when things start to go south?_

Zoro had never dated anyone long term before, but from what he’d heard: most relationships ran smoothly for a short while in that first glow of meeting someone, where you just fit right and everything felt good. Then that rosy glow wore off, and you had to deal with shit.

The swordsman was up for that. Hell: if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have told Sanji _anything_ about his messed-up past. He’d trusted Sanji enough to open up and let the chef some of the way in. It had felt hella risky but Sanji had handled it okay. He hadn’t freaked out, or backed off.

Yet it had changed things between them. Exactly how, Zoro wasn’t sure. But one nagging thought kept recurring now in his hindbrain, however much he tried to subdue it.

_Maybe me telling him about all that heavy shit from my past didn’t exactly help his stress levels._

It wasn’t like Zoro could take any of it back. And Sanji had understood. Had said that he was okay with it.

_Uh no: he didn’t actually say that._

He could replay the memory of the way Sanji had looked, sitting at the table, watching him. Hear the stunned tones of the chef’s voice.

_\- This is so fucked._

That had been the first thing Sanji had said, after hearing Zoro’s revelations. Even if later on he’d said he understood that Zoro had only done what he had to, to survive.

When Zoro had told his boyfriend the ugly parts of his history, afterwards he’d needed to know just one thing from Sanji. Had made himself ask it.

_\- Are we good?_

Looking up at the chef, trying to read his eyes, his face, his body language. And Sanji had replied by bending down and kissing him, hard and long.

Struggling to fit words to thoughts was something Zoro knew about. When that happened he tried to make himself understood in physical ways. In contrast, Sanji was usually at ease with talking, explaining, questioning, answering... Only that time, he didn’t. Just that long, forceful kiss. And then a wry smile.

_\- That answer your question?_

Maybe Zoro would have to settle for that. It was a big enough deal that Sanji had listened to all that messed-up stuff, without expecting him to be overjoyed about it as well. His boyfriend had enough on his plate right now, the chef didn’t need anything else to stress about. And Zoro sure as shit wasn’t going to go digging up his own past again. Once was more than enough.

Thinking about all this en route to _Bite Me_ he missed a crossroads when he should have turned left, only noticing when he found himself two blocks away from where he ought to be.

“Shit.” Zoro stopped and scanned the nearby buildings, looking for street signs: then gave up and hauled out his cell phone, opening up its satnav.

By the time he finally made it to _Bite Me_ it was after six. He could see Sanji through the food stall’s open window, wiping down the counter and tidying away napkins and wooden cutlery. “Oi, cook.” Zoro raised a hand in greeting.

Sanji looked up with a slightly harassed look, then did a double-take. “Oh. Thought you were working late tonight?”

“Caught a break, someone took my evening shift for me.” Zoro leant on the counter and gave his boyfriend a smile. “How was your day?”

“Okay... Busy for a couple hours, over lunch.” The chef stowed away a container of sauces in a refrigerator, then rinsed the cloth he’d been using to wipe the counter.

“Cool. Maybe things are picking up.” Zoro tried to be encouraging.

“I can’t keep the bank happy with maybes.” Sanji came out of the stall, folded up the front counter, then secured it into place. “I need it to be busy all day, not just for a couple of hours.”

_Okay, being encouraging isn’t gonna work. Let’s go for distraction._ Stepping back to give his boyfriend room to work, Zoro tried another tactic. “Then forget about it for a night. Come back to mine for pizza and movies. You don’t have to work tomorrow, right?”

“I can’t just _forget_ about a debt of a grand and a half.” Sanji’s tone was sharp. “I’ve got to figure out some way of turning things around, and quick.”

“Maybe you could talk to your old man, see if he could help – ”

The chef pulled the stall’s large front shutter down with unnecessary force, before shooting Zoro a dark look. “I am not going to Zeff about this.”

“You don’t think he’d want to know?”

“That’s not the fucking point. I’m not asking Zeff for money to bail me out of this situation, on top of everything else he’s done for me to get this business up and running. End of.” Sanji slid the heavy padlock on to secure the shutter, frowning. “Jesus, Zoro... have you forgotten already, how I feel about asking him for stuff? Buy a clue.”

Zoro felt his own temper rise a notch, but resisted the urge to reply with something equally snippy. “Okay. Just a suggestion.”

“Well, keep your bright ideas to yourself. Unless they involve miraculous ways of generating serious cash quickly by legal means. Because that’s the only thing that would actually help me, at this point in time.”

The swordsman took a slow breath in. And tried to remember that his boyfriend was tired and stressed and wasn’t actually aiming to be as pissy as he was sounding. Probably.

“Oh... Are you closed up?” A woman’s voice came from behind them. Both men turned, temporarily distracted from their prickly conversation. A heavily made-up slim blonde who looked to be in her early twenties stood a couple of yards away, looking from _Bite Me_ ’s closed frontage to Sanji with an expression of regret. “I meant to get here earlier - it’s been kinda crazy today...” Her voice trailed off.

“Kelsey! Hey, good to see you.” Sanji’s voice became welcoming, the tension in his face replaced by a smile. “I was wondering if you would drop by sometime, _chérie_. How are you?”

“Eh, okay... Busy, ya know?” She gave a brief shrug.

“Of course.” Sanji nodded understandingly. “Well, it’s lucky you’re here. I didn’t sell all the _pain au raisin_ today, and it’ll be no good for next week - so I put it aside just in case you came by.”

Kelsey’s lips pressed together, then she gave a tentative smile in return. “Yeah?”

“ _Bien sûr,_ absolutely.” Sanji gestured encouragingly. “I hate food going to waste, it’s my absolute pleasure to know it’ll go to someone who appreciates my _patisserie_. Wait here a moment – I’ll just fetch it.” And with that he headed back inside through _Bite Me’s_ still-open side door.

Left together on the sidewalk, Zoro and Kelsey looked at each other. The young woman turned her smile on him. “Hi. I’m Kelsey. You a friend of Sanji’s?”

Zoro took in her tight-fitting, low-cut blouse; the extra-short skirt that clung to her hips and upper thighs. High strappy heels; nails that were long and painted bright pink; long blonde hair, dark at the roots. Heavily-applied make-up that didn’t entirely disguise the slight wash of tiredness under her eyes. “Yeah. How about you?”

“Me? I just come by sometimes, ya know?” Kelsey adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, her eyes becoming slightly guarded. “Hang out and talk. Sanji’s cool.”

“Uh huh.” _You mean he’s a fucking soft touch._ “You work round here?” Zoro was pretty sure that he knew the answer to that one.

“Well yeah, nearby, kinda...” Kelsey said this vaguely, turning her gaze down the street.

 _Wherever you can find tricks, I’ll bet._ The swordsman regarded her unsmilingly.

“Here we are, _chérie_.” Sanji emerged from inside the food stall, holding a large take-out bag which he presented to her with a flourish. “There were a couple of brioche too, that were just taking up space. Enjoy, _bon appétit_.”

“Oh, wow... Thanks, Sanji!” Kelsey took the parcelled-up food happily, opening up the top of the bag and pushing her face close to take a deep sniff. “Mmm... They smell awesome.”

“Oh, hold up – there’s some fruit needed using up today, I forgot about it. You like bananas?”

Kelsey giggled. “Yeah. I like ‘em.”

“Wait right there, I’ll just go put ‘em in a bag for you too. No point me keeping them for next week, they’ll be over-ripe by then.” With a flourishing wave the chef ducked back inside _Bite Me._

Kelsey grinned after him. “Heh, he’s such a sweetie.” Her hand swung the bag of leftover food Sanji had given her, lightly to and fro.

Zoro watched all this. And felt slow anger roil up inside.

_This isn’t a one-off. You knew you could show up and get this. You knew you’d get a guaranteed free handout, from him._

Recent weeks unspooled in Zoro’s mind.

Sanji working every fucking hour he could, running himself ragged. Lying sweating in his darkened bedroom with an arm over his face, enduring the killer migraine. Sitting at his desk stressing over his dwindling bank balance, head propped in his hands: fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to figure out how to get out from under the looming repair bill. Arguing with Zoro about not taking time out. Refusing to ask Zeff for help.

“Hey.” Zoro’s voice came out low, but with enough of an edge that it got Kelsey to look round at him. “Make this the last damn freebie you come sucking around here for.”

Her eyes widened a little, at whatever she saw in his face. Her hand tightened on the bag Sanji had already given her. “I don’t ask him for it. Sanji just gives me stuff - ”

“I don’t give a shit. He doesn’t need fucking freeloaders like you hanging round his place, leeching off him. Take what he gives you tonight: then don’t ever show your face round here again.”

Kelsey stared at him in response – then her shoulders curled in, as she folded her arms protectively across herself. “...Right.” Her answer fell into the air between them, voice thin and brittle.

“...Here it is, sweetheart: fruit from the tropics, the perfect accompaniment to patisserie.” Sanji was suddenly back in the street, holding out a paper bag which was bulging with bananas. “They’ll be fine to eat tonight, or for breakfast tomorrow.”

Kelsey took the second bag with a fleeting smile at him and duck of her head. “Thanks, Sanji.” She shot the briefest glance at Zoro. “Gotta go. Take care.” Ducking her head again, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away up the street.

“Oh... Okay.” Sanji raised his voice slightly as she moved away. “Take care of yourself too, _chérie!”_ Kelsey made no sign or acknowledgement of hearing him. Frowning slightly, Sanji turned back to the stall and pulled the side door closed, before pulling down the smaller shutter and locking it. “Hhm... She left in a hurry.”

“Good.” Zoro was glad the woman had gotten the message so easily.

Sanji turned and looked at him, putting his keys in his pocket. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wise up, cook. She was putting the moves on you to get what she wants. She’s a hooker, or didn’t you figure that out?”

The chef regarded him steadily, blue eyes suddenly chilly. “Well, once again you excel at pointing out the obvious. With your usual impeccable tact.”

“She’s the last thing you need hanging around here, when you’re trying to attract more paying customers.”

“She is not a _thing_.” Sanji spoke very precisely. “She’s a woman.”

“Who’s after whatever she can scam out of you. She’s not interested in being your friend: she’s just a whore on the make.”

Sanji’s jaw clenched. “I hate that word.”

“Fuck political correctness.” Zoro wasn’t interested in sugar-coating this. “You don’t need to be giving her freebies. That bitch can probably make more on her back in a couple of nights, than you can working hard here for a week.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ talk about her like that, you asshole!” The chef’s face reddened with fury. “What gives you the right to say hateful shit like that about someone?”

“I’m not gonna stand here and watch her wind you round her skanky little finger, to get you to give her free food, when your business is struggling,” Zoro declared. “She can go looking for handouts somewhere else.”

Sanji’s eyes widened a little... Then he stared at the swordsman. “What the hell did you _do?_ You said something to her, didn’t you?” Zoro levelly returned his stare: the chef gritted his teeth. “Shit – did you _threaten_ her?”

“I told her to move on.” Zoro folded his arms across his chest. “She was smart enough to get the message.”

“You _fucker_.” Sanji said this vehemently, looking up the street in the direction Kelsey had disappeared. “You motherfucking – _Shit:_ I’m going after her. Right now.”

“She’s gone. And she won’t be coming back, now she knows she can’t hit on you for freebies.”

Sanji swung round on him. “Who the _hell_ do you think you are, telling someone they can’t talk to me?” He stepped in close to Zoro, grabbing the front of his shirt. “And threatening a _woman,_ you psycho?! I’ll kick your shitty ass!”

“Get a grip.” Zoro felt the chef’s clenched fist shove against his chest: closed his own hand around the other man’s and pulled it away.

“ _Rrrghh_ \- ” Sanji bit out a sound of pure fury, jerking his hand free. Bent down and picked up his backpack, slinging it onto his shoulder. Gave Zoro a single venomous look. “ _Fuck_. You.” Then turned and began striding swiftly away.

Zoro frowned after him.

_That all went to shit at the speed of light._

Anger still sat in the pit of his stomach, a hard sour knot. And he wanted to pursue Sanji, grab him by the shoulder, stop him walking away.

Except. He could still feel where the chef’s fist had pressed against his chest. And he knew that going after Sanji right now meant that the threat to kick his ass would be carried out, regardless of it turning into a physical fight in the middle of the street. Which wasn’t a good way to solve any of this mess.

_Give him some space. Let him walk it off._

Zoro took a deep breath. Stood for a long moment, gazing at the closed shutter of _Bite Me._ Then slowly began to walk down the street, in the direction Sanji had gone.

Fury gave Sanji an energy he hadn’t had in weeks. He covered the distance between _Bite Me_ and his apartment in twenty minutes flat, seething all the way.

Once inside his building he stomped up the stairs. Jammed his keys in his apartment door’s lock, then slammed the door shut behind him and strode into the lounge, yanking off his jacket.

His phone’s ringtone sounded: he pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the screen. Zoro, calling him.

“ _Dégage, salaud!”_ Sanji snarled, hitting _END CALL_. Slapped the phone onto the desk. Barely five seconds later, it rang again. He let it ring, stomping through to the kitchen. He ran himself a glass of water and drank it standing up at the sink. When the glass was empty he had to hold himself back from smashing it down hard. He leaned for long moments with both hands gripping the sink edge, body rigid.

A sound pursued him from the other room. His phone ringing again.

Sanji shoved himself upright and stormed back into the lounge. Picked up his phone and cut the call once more, before bringing up Zoro’s number and selecting _BLOCK INCOMING CALLS_. Then he turned his phone off and dropped it on the desk again, before turning round and taking a few steps across the room.

The kick he launched took him by surprise, his foot striking the chair next to him and sending it toppling over onto its side. “ _Connard!”_ He stamped past the fallen chair over to the couch: sat down heavily. “ _Enfoiré!”_

And then, just like that, the fury went from hot to cold in his guts, like molten metal solidifying into heavy hard weight. Sanji found his arms folded around his stomach, his breath coming between clenched teeth.

_You son of a bitch._

_“The person you are calling is unavailable.”_ The chirpy little message sounded in Zoro’s ear for the twentieth time, telling him what he already knew. That Sanji was blocking his calls and texts. Wasn’t going to pick up, or answer. Which was a big fucking wind-up, considering they’d just had a fight which had ended with the chef telling Zoro to fuck himself and then walking away.

All Zoro had done was tell that streetwalker to take a hike, and he’d only done that because the chef needed freeloaders like her hanging round his business like he needed a hole in the head.

Yet within two minutes Sanji was yelling at him on the street, calling him a psycho and threatening to kick his ass, the chef’s fist clenched in Zoro’s shirt. An inch away from carrying out his threat.

_Okay. Damage limitation._

Zoro wasn’t entirely clear on what had happened, but no way was he leaving things like this. Sanji needed some time to cool off, sure. And maybe the chef was so under the bus with stress it hadn’t taken much to make him flip out. But the only way they were going to fix this was by talking.

Which wasn’t going to happen when one of the involved parties had left the conversation and refused to participate further.

Zoro tried sending another text to Sanji’s number: again it bounced back undelivered. He pocketed his phone, and kept walking in the direction of Sanji’s apartment. Where he would try the entry buzzer, and if Sanji ignored that then fuck it: he’d wait until someone entered the building and slip in with them. Because this shit needed sorting out.

As it turned out, Sanji pre-empted one of Zoro’s strategies by muting his entryphone intercom, so he wouldn’t hear if the swordsman was down on the street leaning on the button. That done, he made himself a coffee, lit a cigarette, and fired up his laptop. Intending to block out what had happened by doing some work.

_I don’t have time for this crap right now._

The heavy tension in his stomach made concentrating on his emails difficult. He’d start reading a message from a supplier, only to find his thoughts drifting back to the scene outside _Bite Me_.

_\- She’s not interested in being your friend: she’s just a whore on the make._

Even now, it went through him with a jarring shock, making him cringe internally.

_– Did you threaten her?_

_\- I told her to move on. She was smart enough to get the message._

Zoro, standing there scowling, arms folded across his chest. Looking as intimidating as fuck. Sanji could guess how it had felt for Kelsey, to be on the receiving end of that.

_Christ._

Sanji had reacted instinctively, pushed into instant fury: seizing Zoro by his shirt, wanting to lash out and knock the swordsman back. Make him shut the fuck up, stop saying those things.

But they had already been said. And now that anger was stuck in Sanji’s guts, roiling around with nowhere to go.

His fruitless staring at the laptop screen was suddenly interrupted by a loud knocking on his apartment door.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Sanji dropped his face into his hands for a moment, groaning. Knowing who it had to be.

A minute crawled by, where he sat grimly at his desk, refusing to answer the summons. Then the knocking was repeated, louder. Like a fist was being used.

Getting up suddenly, Sanji strode to his front door; took a deep breath; then yanked it open. Stood glaring at Zoro standing in the hallway, without saying a thing.

The swordsman looked angry too, but like he was trying not to show it. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

“How’d you get up here?” Sanji demanded.

“Followed one of your neighbours into the building.” Zoro dismissed the chef’s diversionary tactic. “Answer the fucking question, cook.”

“The hell is there to talk about? You’re an asshole. Go figure it out on your own.”

“Bullshit. How come you were ready to kick my head in, back there?”

“Someone needs to.”

“Because I told some streetwalker to take a hike?” Zoro frowned at him. “You’re overreacting, shit cook.”

“ _I’m_ overreacting?” Sanji glared at his boyfriend. “How about _you,_ you fucking Neanderthal? You’re the one threatened a woman half your size!”

“I didn’t do shit. I just told her to go find someone else to leech off.”

“Yeah, I bet you said it real nicely, too.” The chef spat this out. “Not to mention, all the unbelievably offensive bullshit you said about her to me.”

“All I did was call it like it is. She’s a hooker: she’s not a fucking Girl Scout. She was totally playing you. And you’re just too soft-hearted to see it.”

Sanji felt his anger spike. “It’s fucking ironic. You, of all people, coming out with such toxic _crap_ about someone like that!”

Zoro’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, Zoro – you spent a while yourself living on the streets.” Sanji tried to control the fury boiling inside him, letting out a hard exhalation. “You _know_ how tough it is out there. Have some fucking compassion... It’s not so many years since you were in the same position.”

“Don’t put me in the same category as that skank - I never sold my ass to get by.”

“Yeah, right - big difference.” No longer trying to keep his anger leashed in, Sanji heard his own tone become knife-sharp, laced with venom. “You just used to beat people senseless for money, so you could get your _shitty_ junkie ass wasted on drugs. Of course: that makes you a total fucking _prince_ by comparison.”

Zoro’s eyes widened slightly.

Sanji watched this happen. Still glaring at his boyfriend; riding the white-hot rage he’d felt since he’d realised what Zoro had said and done to the woman outside _Bite Me_.

And then he saw it. Something raw show on the swordsman’s face, just for an instant. Something that made the pit of his own stomach drop.

Then Zoro’s brows drew down and a flatness slid into his eyes, mouth setting into a line. And the muscles of his arms tightened, hands clenching into fists.

Sanji suddenly felt as if he were falling, the ground giving way.

_No wait Stop stop stop_

Like a traffic accident happening. Damage unfolding and just watching it, unable to take it back.

“Shit...” His voice came out rough at the edges, not like his own. “Don’t want to talk with you right now. Just go away.”

Zoro’s dark gaze hardened. “Fuck that. We’re gonna sort this out.”

Another swell of anger made the chef clench his jaw. “No. Go the hell home.” And he started to close his apartment door.

Zoro moved with feral swiftness: his hand slammed hard against the closing door, halting its movement. “ - We’re not done here.”

Sanji held still in the doorway, eyes locking on the swordsman’s. Feeling everything spiralling further out of control, fury flaring up like wildfire, making his voice come out as a growl. “ _Move_ your fucking hand.”

“We’re not through talking.” Zoro pushed the door further open, shoving it against the chef’s restraining grip. “You want us to do this in the hallway, or are you gonna let me inside, shitty cook?”

_Don’t shove me, you fucking asshole -_

Sanji shifted sideways, letting go of the door so that it slammed inward against the wall. Zoro started to step forward - but the chef kicked out, so swiftly his leg was a blur.

His savate training drove it home. The _chassé frontal_ push kick slammed hard into Zoro’s ribs, throwing him backwards across the corridor to connect with the wall opposite: a heavy _slam_ that probably shook the occupant of the opposite apartment.

Time slowed down. Sanji found himself standing rigidly in the doorway, watching his boyfriend slumped against the wall. Zoro’s arm came up to hold his side, the swordsman letting out a sound that sounded like he was having some trouble restarting his breathing.

Then Zoro’s head unsteadily lifted, his dark eyes finding the chef’s.

Sanji met the swordsman’s gaze. Feeling the anger rushing through him, filling him, leaving room for nothing else. “I told you to leave.”

Zoro let his arm drop. Pushed himself away from the wall, to stand up straight. “Cook - ”

“Either walk away down those stairs _right fucking now_ , or I will kick you down them.” The chef made his voice icy, hardly unsteady at all. “Get. The hell. _Out_.”

For maybe ten seconds no-one said or did anything. Then without another word, Zoro turned and walked away. Leaving Sanji standing in his doorway, adrenaline flooding his body. Hands gripping the doorframe so hard his fingers ached.

A minute crawled by. Two, and he was still standing there. Sanji took a deep breath: stepped back and closed the door. Not slamming it hard: shutting it slowly and quietly. He found himself checking the lock, making sure it was secure.

His mind was white noise, mental static. He slowly turned and went back to his living room. Sat down again at his desk. Picked up his cigarette and lukewarm coffee; sipped and smoked. Not tasting the caffeine or the nicotine, but doing it anyway. Trying to pull himself back into normality.

In front of him his laptop screen glowed, the messages in his email Inbox waiting for him.

His phone lay a few inches from his hand, still switched off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:  
> Merde = Shit  
> C’est des conneries = This is bullshit  
> Dégage, salaud! = Piss off, bastard!  
> Connard! = Asshole!  
> Enfoiré! = Fucker!
> 
> Author notes:  
> There is some ugly stuff in this chapter, both from outside protagonists and from the main characters. Just to be clear: both Zoro and Sanji say and do things here that are not OK. Hope you can bear to hold off on judgement till you've read the whole fic.


	9. Never Going To Be Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey.” This time Luffy’s tone had an edge to it. “You wanna talk to me?”
> 
> “Nope.” Zoro smiled mirthlessly, still gazing out into the darkness.
> 
> “You been in a shitty mood all night.”
> 
> “Yeah. So?”
> 
> “So what’s going on?” Luffy poked him in the ribs. Almost exactly where Sanji’s kick had landed.

* * *

_Now there's no way back from the things you've done  
I know it's too late to stop the setting sun  
You see the shadows in the distant light  
And it's never going to be alright_

_\- Hurts_

* * *

Zoro walked away as fast as he could from Sanji’s apartment, his whole body humming like a wire under tension. He broke into a run, trying to outpace what had happened. Burn off the adrenaline aftermath.

By the time he got back to his building, Luffy was home from work too.

“Oi, Zoro! Making grilled sandwiches, want some?” His roomie stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway, customary grin spread across his face. “Bacon and cheese, or tuna and cheese.” He appeared to consider for a moment. “Or bacon and tuna?”

“Not hungry.” Zoro kept going, moving through space until he reached his room and could shut his door behind himself. Dropped his gym bag on the floor and walked to the window: raised both hands and leaned his palms flat against the wall, either side of the window frame. Staring out at the street without seeing it.

There was an ache in his side, where Sanji’s kick had landed. What felt like a bruise coming on the back of his head, where he’d collided with the wall.

Zoro shut his eyes.

_The fuck happened back there?_

If any other person had done what the chef had, Zoro would have reacted how he usually did when someone attacked him. He would have come back at them hard: dealt the same fucking grief back, and then some.

But the swordsman hadn’t. Even after Sanji’s words had pierced him like a knife being slid into his gut. When they pushed Zoro into a place where he felt so fucking bad, he wanted nothing except to hit back.

_\- You just used to beat people senseless for money, so you could get your shitty junkie ass wasted on drugs._

Those words kept replaying in his head, over and over. Hitting harder than the kick that had slammed him into a wall.

His side hurt. Nothing was broken, he could tell that because breathing didn’t make those little fiery stabs run through his ribs, the way it had done a few weeks back. Yet somehow getting a breath in past the feeling of a fish hook lodged in his chest took all of his effort. And when he let the same breath out it felt as though he was sinking into deep water. 

_\- Walk away down those stairs right fucking now, or I will kick you down them._

Zoro’s hands clenched into fists.

_\- Shitty junkie_

The ache in his side and the bruise coming on the back of his head and that sharp hook in the centre of his chest were things to focus on, so Zoro did that. Trying to distract himself from the thoughts spiralling inside.

_Thought I hadn’t fucked things up, when I told him about all that shit. Looks like I was wrong._

The dismal realisation rose in him now, that damage came in different forms. The kind that broke things quickly, catastrophically: as soon as it happened. Or the kind that shattered something with hairline cracks. Stress fractures that you couldn’t even tell were there, until you put pressure on them.

Either way, it felt like something was broken now.

_You fucking idiot. What’d you expect?_

That inner voice, angrily telling himself he shouldn’t be surprised. The surprise he’d felt had been weeks previous, when he’d told Sanji about all that shit from his past: surprise that the chef hadn’t backed off then. That Sanji had seemed to deal with it.

_Maybe he wasn’t as okay with it as he said he was?_

_Well, duh._

That seemed pretty fucking obvious; given the words Sanji had now thrown in Zoro’s face. Not to mention, the chef doing his best to stove the swordsman’s ribs in.

The sensation of his nails digging into his palms made Zoro realise he had clenched his hands so hard they were starting to ache. Pulling in a breath, he made himself open them. Pressed his palms against the cool, unyielding surface of the wall, trying to ground himself.

A knocking at his door startled him. “Eh... Zoro?”

Letting his forehead rest against the window glass with a thump, Zoro released a long outbreath. Then managed a reply, turning his head to speak over his shoulder. “...Yeah.”

His bedroom door opened, Luffy appearing holding two plates. “Okay, I made you bacon and cheese _and_ tuna. Me too.” He grinned at his friend, bouncing onto the bed to sit crosslegged and extending one of the sandwich-laden plates in Zoro’s direction. “There woulda been potato chips too, only we’re out.”

Turning away from the window, Zoro advanced on the bed. Sat down too and examined the proffered sandwich. It was ridiculously thick, melted cheese and fragments of meat escaping out the sides. “Thanks.”

Luffy grinned again, and took a large bite out of his own gargantuan snack. “Mwhoa... Vat’sh weally goo’.” He chewed meditatively, then swallowed. “I’ll bet it’d be even better with some chicken in it.”

Biting into his own sandwich for lack of anything better to do, Zoro chewed and swallowed. The food slid past the sharp sensation in his chest and sat in his guts like lead. Luffy regarded him with interrogatively raised eyebrows, so the swordsman gave his friend a response. “Great.”

“Yeah.” Luffy beamed, before resuming eating. “I’m not as good at cooking as Sanji, but when it comes to sandwiches, I kick ass.”

Zoro felt his stomach tighten. 

“Hey.” Luffy took another enormous bite, apparently trying to set a world record for finishing a sandwich in the fastest time possible. “Goin’ to the Ark tonight. You and Sanji wanna come?”

“He’s busy.” Zoro said this without inflection, keeping his voice normal. “And I’m kinda wiped. Long week.”

“Aww, c’mon.” Luffy elbowed him cheerfully. “Usopp’s not around, got some kind of online art nerd thing he said he was busy at tonight. It’d suck to go on my own.”

Refraining from pointing out that there’d probably be a couple hundred other partyheads there, Zoro shook his head. “Not really in the mood.”

“Then you need cheering up!” Luffy spread his hands with the air of one eliminating all problems. “Got paid today. C’mon, come out and have some fun. What you gonna do else, sit here on the couch and drink beer on your lonesome?”

Zoro had a sudden mental picture of what his evening would likely entail if he didn’t go out with Luffy. Pretty much what his younger friend had just described: himself sitting alone, sinking drink after drink, with nothing to distract him from the scenario currently looping inside his head.

“Okay, whatever. I’ll come out.”

“Yay! Good choice.” Luffy fist-pumped the air, and fell to on the remains of his sandwich.

By the time they’d reached the Ark and gotten inside, Zoro was working hard on not regretting his decision. The squatted party venue was as rammed with people as the last time he’d come there, and the combination of crowded, hot spaces and loud, partying-hearty people didn’t do much for his already stormy mood.

The music was better than the last time – a live band thrashing out indie rock on the Ark’s stage – but after standing at the back for a while failing to get into it, Zoro wandered elsewhere.

Knocking back mouthfuls from the bottle of Jack he’d bought en route helped to take the edge off. He decided that as long as he didn’t have to dance or look like he was having fun, he could stay there. If he let the noise drift out of focus enough, it helped to drown out the shit in his head.

As expected, Luffy soon disappeared into a crowd of dancers – wearing that dumbass straw hat he’d been gifted with the last time he’d been there. No big deal, it wasn’t like Zoro was looking for company anyway.

As the level of whiskey fell, everything receded a little. Just enough that those circling thoughts went out of focus too. Not that he was able to stop thinking about what had happened: he just gave less of a fuck.

_Can’t do a fuckin thing about it if that shithead won’t talk to me_

At some point later Zoro found himself in the upper levels, still wandering restlessly. The level in his bottle of whiskey had fallen past the halfway point, and the buzz was really starting to come on now.

“Oi, oi - over here, bro!” A raucous shout came from a knot of people clustered round a pile of metal winking with fairylights. Heads turning to look at him. And then leaning out of the middle, a figure with welding goggles shoved up against a shock of turquoise hair, a familiar sardonic face with black-outlined eyes. “Suu-perrr! Fellow freaks, meet the art critic. Zoro: meet the freaks.”

The swordsman nodded at the tall sculptor. “...Hi, Franky.”

“Was wondering why we hadn’t seen your ass around here in a while.” Franky winked at him. “Monkeyboy lure you back into our nest of chaos?”

Zoro lifted his bottle of whiskey. “Nah, Jack talked me into it.”

Franky laughed, slapping the shoulder of one of the people near him. “Right on. You in a drinking mood, bro?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

The Freaks had created a den of sorts in the room, with cable spool tables and crates and drums for seating. More twinkling LED lights and metal sculptures decked the walls.

“Your friends dancing down in Babylon?” Franky enquired, filling a jar doing service as a glass half-and-half with coke and whiskey, then clinking its rim against Zoro’s bottle.

“Luffy prob’ly, yeah. Usopp’s not here.” Zoro knocked back another belt of whiskey: let himself follow the burn as it went down. Not buzzed enough, if he could still feel that.

“Still a straight-up man, I see.” Franky gave him a sardonic grin.

“ ‘Bout the only thing about me that is.”

“Huh?”

Zoro let out a grim snort of laughter. “Forget it.” Putting a lid on it. Not wanting to let any of that shit out.

_You are so screwed Every fucking thing you touch you mess up_

Shaking his head to send the thoughts away, he gave Franky a narrow smile. “This place is even more packed than the last time I came.”

“Oh yeah.” Franky purred this loudly. “Word gets around. All them waifs and strays, lost souls lookin’ for a home.”

“And for a free party.”

“That too,” Franky agreed with a chuckle.

“No static from the cops yet?”

“Mostly they been lookin’ the other way. Startin’ to turn up the heat some now, though.” Franky scratched his chest, meditatively. “One thing they surely hate is folks doin’ their own thing. ‘Specially if said folks are mouthing off about the powers that be.”

“Uh?” Zoro raised an eyebrow.

“Ask your Monkeyboy friend.” Franky gave him a sidelong look.

It didn’t make much sense, but maybe that was because Zoro was three-quarters of the way through his bottle of whiskey. Not that this was a problem: if anything, the reverse.

The night wore on and the whiskey gave out. Which didn’t matter overmuch, because the random gang of Freaks seemed to have an inexhaustible stash of beers in their twinkly-lit scrap metal nest, and didn’t mind sharing them.

Beer wasn’t the only thing on offer, either. In the dim space small red glows waxed and waned, and the sharp smell of grass cut through alcohol, metal and sweat.

A fat joint was handed into the group around their table, and passed around. A skinny guy with a Mohawk took a gulp of smoke then held out the spliff to Zoro.

The swordsman took it, regarding the little glowing end for a moment, seeing if any part of him was going to resist.

_Fuck it._

If this was who he was, why the fuck fight it? 

Zoro took a hard pull on the joint, inhaling deep: the burn hit the back of his throat, followed by the head rush of the weed. He took another couple of hits for good measure, before handing it on. Then shut his eyes and let himself go with the rush, letting the world spin out a while.

When he finally opened his eyes Franky was watching him. The sculptor cocked an eyebrow. “Mixin’ yer poisons?”

Zoro gave him a slow, crooked smile. “Fuck yeah.”

“Heh.” The sculptor nodded with an answering smile. But those black-rimmed eyes stayed on him for a moment longer.

The Freaks were just getting into stride, and after that things got kind of blurry round the edges. Zoro finished a beer, then a few more. Thought about maybe talking a walk, or finding more whiskey; then Mohawk guy handed him another joint. He was about to take a hit on it when a hand came out of the darkness and plucked the spliff out of his fingers.

“Th’ fuck - ” Zoro tipped his head back, tilting on his crate seat to see exactly who’d swiped his smoke.

Luffy stood on the edge of their circle of Freaks, holding the joint in one hand. He looked Zoro in the eyes and for once he wasn’t smiling.

“Oi, shithead. Wait your turn...” Zoro reached out to take it back, but Luffy backed off.

“Nuh uh.”

“...Asshole.” Zoro scowled at him.

Luffy handed on the spliff to someone in the darkness, then reached down and tugged at Zoro’s arm. “C’mon. Let’s go for a walk.”

“M’good here.”

“Let’s go,” Luffy repeated, tugging him forcefully upwards.

Zoro could have resisted, but shit: it was Luffy, whadya gonna do?

He followed in the younger man’s wake, winding through dark corridors, away from the partying Freaks. And the beer.

“Oi... Luffy.” No response. “Oi. The fuck are we going?”

“C’mon.” Luffy simply tugged on his arm again, towing him onwards.

They stopped at last at a heavy steel door, where Luffy produced a key and unlocked the padlock that secured it, leading the way through. A ladder going upwards greeted them: at last Zoro recognised where they were. “We headin’ up to the roof?”

“Yeah.” Luffy was already climbing upwards. “Franky gave me the key.”

“When?”

“Just now.” Luffy reached the hatch, unlocking and opening it. He climbed out of sight; then his head reappeared in the hatchway. “C’mon, Zoro!”

Sighing, the swordsman followed suit.

Stepping out onto the roof, cool air reached him. He stood for a moment breathing it in, before looking round to spot his friend. Luffy had already reached the far edge of the roof and was sitting down, gazing out in the direction of the river.

Zoro joined him, exhaling as he sat crosslegged beside his friend. “What you want to come up here for? Watch the sunrise?”

“To get you outta there.” Luffy answered him as if this was a no-brainer.

“...Hah?”

His friend turned and looked him square in the eyes. “How come you were toking?”

Zoro returned his gaze and searched his brain for an answer. “Felt like it.”

“Yeah, but _why?”_

“Get off my case.” Zoro looked away, out over the night city.

Luffy let out a sigh. “Man, whassup?”

It was dark out there. Moving lights of vehicles across the river: white headlights coming, red tail-lights going. Buildings black against charcoal sky. When you couldn’t see things they felt a lot simpler. Zoro breathed in the cool night air and tried to hold onto the buzz. Keep things blurry a little longer.

“Hey.” This time Luffy’s tone had an edge to it. “You wanna talk to me?”

“Nope.” Zoro smiled mirthlessly, still gazing out into the darkness.

“You been in a shitty mood all night.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So what’s going on?” Luffy poked him in the ribs. Almost exactly where Sanji’s kick had landed.

“ _Ngh._ Get off.” Zoro swatted the younger man’s hand away.

“I thought you quit smoking weed.”

The silence stretched between them for a minute or so. At last Zoro answered. “Ran out of whiskey.”

Luffy let out a snort. “Dumbass.” Then, after a brief pause: “Somethin’ up with you and Sanji?”

Zoro felt his eyes widen then, still gazing out into the city night. It never failed to take him by surprise when Luffy was bang on the money. It took him a moment to recover; when he had, his reply was short. “...Yeah.”

“You guys have a fight?” This time the swordsman just nodded. “What about?”

“Fuck if I know.” This reply tumbled out of Zoro, before he realised how true it was. He knew how it had started, sure: the chef yelling curses at him outside _Bite Me_ after Zoro had sent that hooker on her way. And more of the same, after he’d followed Sanji back to his apartment. But there was a whole shitload of other stuff in there. Sanji’s killer workload and financial problems. Zoro’s gnarly revelations a few weeks previous. A whole bunch of crap tangling together, and no way of unknotting it.

Out of the blur of whiskey and weed and beer, Sanji’s venomous words suddenly echoed in his head again.

_\- You just used to beat people senseless for money, so you could get your shitty junkie ass wasted on drugs._

“Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_...” Zoro shook his head to dislodge the biting voice, trying to get the blurriness back.

_Shitty junkie Shitty junkie_

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, Luffy suddenly close against him as the younger man pulled him in for one of his killer hugs. Zoro let it happen for a few moments, before growling, “Okay. Ease off.”

Luffy gave him a little slack, but kept his arm slung around the swordsman’s back. “You’ll figure it out.”

“Uh huh.”

“Want me to go talk to him?” Luffy sounded up for the challenge.

“Fuck no.”

“You gonna go talk to him?”

“Not an option right now.”

“Eh?”

“Need some space.” That sounded better than _My boyfriend kicked my ass down the hallway to make me leave._

“Pfffft.” Luffy rested his chin on one hand. “That’s dumb.”

They sat for a while in silence then, watching the sky thinking about getting lighter in the east. At last Luffy let out a yawn, and stretched. “Less’go home. M’hungry.”

“Okay.” Zoro wasn’t. His buzz was starting to wear off: and he could feel the mother and father of all hangovers waiting in the wings.

Luffy leaned over and punched him on the arm. “It’d be totally lame if you started fucking around with all that shit again.” It was both a warning and a plea.

Zoro knew what was being asked of him. He let out a breath. “...Yeah.”

Standing up, the younger man held out his hand to help him up. The swordsman took it and got to his feet. As they climbed back down the ladder off the roof, the sky was giving way to daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all have our ways of anaesthetising pain. And oh boy, do old bad habits have a siren call when you're hurtin'...
> 
> Love to all you readers. I need you like Zoro needs Luffy. <3 <3 <3


	10. You And Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a long moment where neither Sanji or his mother said anything. Sanji wondered if he’d made Sora angry, asking questions. But that was the hard thing about being told he was grown-up enough to understand: he didn’t always understand, even when he had things explained to him.
> 
> Sora was watching him carefully. After a pause, she touched his cheek lightly with one hand. “I’m sorry it’s confusing, little chick. But you know that I love you, right?”
> 
> Sanji nodded. That was something he had no doubts about whatsoever.
> 
> “We’re a team, you and me. We’ll be fine. If anyone ever says anything mean to you, whether that’s someone at school or a grown-up, I want you to tell me, okay?”
> 
> “Okay.”
> 
> “Cool.” She nodded firmly, then leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the top of his head before standing up. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the middle of this chapter and for the next two chapters, we're travelling into the heart of Sanji's backstory.
> 
> Buckle up.

* * *

_You and me against the world  
Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world  
When all the others turn their backs and walk away  
You can count on me to stay_

_\- Helen Reddy_

* * *

Sanji passed his weekend in a haze of food prep and paperwork, trying to keep himself busy. When he ran out of legitimate tasks to do, he moved onto deep-cleaning his kitchen. Scrubbing down tiles and scouring cookware was sufficiently mind-numbing that he was able not to think about what had happened between him and Zoro more than once every couple of hours.

He kept the swordsman’s phone number blocked. He didn’t want to talk to Zoro: didn’t want to go anywhere near the scene that kept replaying in his head, every time his thoughts spiralled back there. Their toxic argument outside _Bite Me,_ after Kelsey had been frightened off by Zoro.

_\- She’s not interested in being your friend: she’s just a whore on the make._

The two of them standing in Sanji’s apartment doorway, still arguing. Feeling fury swell and explode, unable to keep it in any longer. Calling Zoro a shitty junkie. Kicking him into the wall.

_Same old, same old._

It had been thirteen years since Sanji broke the habit of rising to the bait of every little taunting fucker who wanted to mess with his head. Since Zeff had read him the riot act and told him, _This fighting shit is a dead-end, kid. You’re smarter than this. Use your brains instead of your fists._

He’d changed. Learned to control his reactions. Found he could use words to confound his tormentors more effectively than by fighting them. Found a safe way to vent the anger by training in savate: learning techniques, learning discipline, fighting within the rules.

And yet that had all disappeared when he and Zoro argued. Sanji had wanted nothing less than to make the swordsman feel as shitty as he did: to make him understand exactly what he’d done.

_\- How come you were ready to kick my head in, back there?_

_\- Someone needs to._

And two minutes later Sanji had obliged, by booting his boyfriend into a wall. After calling him a junkie.

By midnight on Sunday Sanji had cleaned himself to a standstill, smoked four packs of cigarettes, and finally crawled into bed to lie restless with a whirring brain. (Unsurprisingly: several cafetières of dark roast Columbian not proving an aid to restful sleep.) Monday morning found him haggard and aching, with more caffeine and cigarettes his only remedy.

_Thank fuck for work._

Cooking and serving customers at _Bite Me_ the following week was something that took enough concentration to take over from his spiralling thoughts. The summer sun shone; enough punters came to the stall that he had a steady – though still not busy enough – turnover. Sanji prepped and handed over food with a smile and cheerful exchanges, wishing people a great day, encouraging them to come again. He handed out catering cards to everyone who came by, asking them to tell their friends. In quieter interludes he answered work emails and planned menus, made shopping lists for the ingredients he’d need for for weekend catering gigs over the next few weeks.

At the end of each day the chef would prep the next day’s ingredients; wipe down _Bite Me’s_ interior and wash up his cooking kit; count up his takings; lock up the stall; and trudge home smoking a cigarette. By the time he reached the end of the street all the shit he’d managed to keep at bay by working flat-out for eight hours crowded back into his head.

He kept on walking. Got home and made a brew of coffee, maybe a sandwich if he was hungry (which he usually wasn’t). Plugged in his laptop and entered the day’s takings in his books. Stared at the numbers which were still telling him he was up shit creek. Checked his bank accounts online for the umpteenth time, and tried to figure out which bills he might be able to get away with defaulting on first. Surfed the net looking for articles on solving cashflow problems.

Some evenings Nami texted him, and they’d exchange their usual banter: her relating the latest hissy fits her holiday clients had thrown, the chef responding with anecdotes about his stall customers. But when Nami made any kind of reference to Zoro, Sanji felt himself shut down. Typed ‘ _Yeah the mossheads ok’_ and swiftly changed the subject. Feeling shitty for deceiving his friend, but he couldn’t talk to Nami about it. Couldn’t even think about it.

_I don’t have the energy for this right now._

He was dog-tired, barely finding the physical stamina and mental focus every day to keep his business going. Dealing with the shitstorm that had blown up in his personal life was something that he just didn’t have headspace for.

Part of him didn’t _want_ to deal with it. The part that was currently relating a narrative in his head which went roughly: _You knew Zoro was trouble from day one. And after he tells you he used to be a violent drug addict, you’re what: surprised when he goes Jekyll and Hyde on you? Dipshit. You should’ve seen this coming._

That was the part of the chef that kept Zoro’s number blocked on his phone. That had deleted the swordsman as a contact in all of his social media accounts (not that he was going on any of those right now other than for promoting _Bite Me_ , anyway).

It kept the other part of himself at bay. The part that broke into his sleep at 2 A.M., when he woke curled up in bed missing that heat, that solid body dipping the mattress beside him. Feeling empty: achingly incomplete.

_Fucksake. Get a grip. You have a business to salvage. Quit moping like a lovesick teenager._

Talking sternly to himself kept him functioning, if only just. And the days passed relentlessly, taking him closer to the point at which the repair bill was due; and the unit rent; and the bank loan repayment.

Five days after that disastrous Friday evening with Zoro, a message from Usopp landed on the chef’s phone.

_‘Hey dude: got that artwork ready for your new flyers. Can swing by BM later if u wanna take a look?’_

Sanji didn’t have the money for new flyers. Didn’t have the money for anything, but he wasn’t going to think about that because it was the middle of a working week and he couldn’t afford the luxury of being paralysed with anxiety about the fucked-up state of his finances. And anyway, it wasn’t Usopp’s fault Sanji was up shit creek at the bank. The artist had done the work: Sanji wasn’t about to tell him by text it had been wasted effort.

 _‘Yeah drop by I’ll treat you to lunch.’_ Several smiley face emojis came back from Usopp, and the chef slid his phone back into his pocket. Maybe he couldn’t pay his debts, but at least he could still feed people.

As it turned out, it was late afternoon before Usopp materialised. Sanji had occupied himself during the slack post-lunchtime stretch by doing inventory and writing shopping lists for ingredients he wasn’t even remotely sure he was going to be able to afford to buy... When Usopp’s smiling face hove into view over _Bite Me_ ’s counter. “Yo – what’up, dude?”

Sanji set aside his clipboard checklist and smiled back at his friend. “Great timing. You showing up now means I can cook instead of doing paperwork.”

“Let your creative juices flo-o-o-ow,” Usopp intoned with relish, leaning one arm on the counter and propping his chin on his hand. “I’ll just stand here and watch your genius at work.”

Sanji laughed a little self-mockingly, turning to his chopping board and stove. “If only. What’s it gonna be today, ‘Sopp?”

“You got any of those Bajan fish cakes?”

“Just so happens...” Sanji reached into his fridge with a flourish and took out a container, peeling off the lid and revealing its contents. “... _Et voilà_. Must have had a premonition you were going to drop by.”

“Oh _yaaasssss_.” Usopp rubbed his hands together. “Make me a happy man by telling me you got some of that sweet chilli relish to go with.”

Solemnly, Sanji extracted a bowl from the fridge and held it out for the artist to see. “Fresh made this very morning.”

“Fry them fish cakes, and gimme that sauce.” Usopp whisked a paper napkin from the stack on the counter and tucked it into the top of his t-shirt.

It took a while to heat up the oil and cook the spicy Bajan fish cakes until they were a dark golden and crisp. Sanji kept a close eye on them while loading a cardboard bowl with thinly-sliced onion, salad leaves, grated carrot and cilantro: topping this with a few lime wedges before finally dishing up the cooked fish cakes along with the fiery chilli sauce.

Usopp tucked into his food as if it was gourmet fare, making small but passionate noises of appreciation. “Oh _wow_. It ought to be illegal for food to taste this good. Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome.” Sanji smiled absently, running his gaze over the flyer artwork the artist had given him to peruse.

“You kinda supersized me, though. Want some?” Usopp proffered his bowl of food.

“No thanks. I made them for you.” Sanji set the artwork down the counter. “This looks great. You’ve done a really good job on it – thank you.”

“ _De nada_.” Usopp saluted him with a fish cake held between two fingers, before biting off a chunk. “You want me to go ahead and email you the digital artwork, so you can get it printed up?”

“That’d be cool. Not sure when I’ll get that done, but it’d be handy to have it ready to go.” Sanji hesitated, then launched straight into the part of the conversation he’d been dreading. “Uh, I feel crappy about even asking you this after you got this artwork done for me so quickly... But would it be a problem if I had to hold up paying you till after the end of this month?”

Usopp regarded him sympathetically. “Cashflow still kinda tight, huh?”

“You could say that.”

The artist shrugged. “Pay me when you can, dude. I know you’re good for it.”

“Thank you.” Sanji gave him an apologetic smile, feeling shitty. “I’m really sorry I even have to ask. I know you’re trying to earn a living too, I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”

“Psshh.” Usopp waved one hand dismissively. “If I don’t pay the rent and my landlord tosses my ass out on the street, I can always sleep on Zoro and Luffy’s couch. You’re never homeless when you got homies.”

Sanji smiled again, though it felt like he was pinning it on his face. “I guess so.”

Usopp paused in dipping another fish cake into the chilli sauce, to eye the chef closely. “How _are_ things goin’? You been working all the hours, according to Nami.”

“You’ve seen Nami?”

“Ehh, on FaceTime. She asked me to work up some stuff for her website, we kinda got talking.” Usopp looked somewhat self-conscious. “She told me you got sick on her birthday night out, Zoro had to take you home. That right?”

“Ugh, yeah.” Even now Sanji didn’t want to remember that evening. _Especially_ now. “I got a migraine. Really crappy fucking timing.”

“That’s rough. You OK now?”

“Sure. They only last a day or so. I’m good.”

Usopp gave him a steady look. “Usopp’s Infallible Bullshit Detector is being triggered, my friend. You do not seem ‘good’. Maybe you need to ease off some.”

“I’m used to working long hours. Been doing it ever since I got my first job as a chef.”

“I believe you. But, that whole sleep deprivation look? Really not doing you any favours.” Usopp waved a hand in emphasis. “Take it from a guy who’s learned the hard way through one too many gaming all-nighters with Luffy: sleep is good. We need it to live. Unless you’re a vampire or a psychopath, and I’m pretty confident you’re neither.”

“Thanks.” Sanji smiled at the artist, before beginning to clean up the aftermath of his cooking. “I’m glad to know I don’t resemble the undead.”

“The unslept, maybe.” Usopp pointed a finger at him. “Repeat after me: ‘I solemnly swear to get to bed earlier, hang out with my friends more often, and quit making them feel like slackers.’ ”

“Do my best.” The chef leaned forward on the counter with folded arms. “Thanks, Usopp.”

“For what?”

“Being a good friend.”

The artist looked somewhat sheepish. “For coming here and having you feed me every week?”

“No. For hanging out and keeping me company. And helping keep me sane.”

“Heh... First time anyone’s ever accused me of _that_.” Usopp sniggered.

“I mean it.” Sanji met his friend’s gaze. “Life’s been kind of throwing a shitstorm lately... Having you come and cheer me up each week, means a hell of a lot.” 

“Aww, hey... I like it here. No-one else lets me hang around them this much and share my crazed ramblings.” Usopp grinned self-deprecatingly; shrugged; and shifted them into less charged emotional territory by winking and cramming the remaining fish cake into his mouth. His face flushed a little as he chewed and swallowed hard; he caught a breath, then fanned his tongue with one hand. “Whoa... That chilli relish is _dynamite_.”

That visit from Usopp to _Bite Me_ was the high point of Sanji’s week. He slogged through the rest of his working days by focusing on the job, one hour at a time, one day at a time. Made it to Saturday, when he had a catering job – an engagement party, which mercifully didn’t throw him any last-minute curveballs in terms of dietary requests – and powered through prep and delivery and presentation with single-minded concentration.

By the time he’d returned home to his apartment and finished cleaning up his kitchen (not having had time to do that before delivering the food to the clients), he was almost sleepwalking. Too tired to make or eat supper, he drank a glass of wine to switch off his brain while smoking a cigarette; then stumbled to bed in a fog of fatigue.

As he was sinking down into sleep as heavy as if he’d been drugged, the taste of wine and nicotine lingering in his mouth, he felt something waiting in the darkness for him. Resisted it, dread clawing vaguely at his stomach even through the total exhaustion that was dragging him under.

_Please I just need to sleep_

Then he was gone. Where what was waiting for him took him in without a struggle.

_[Nineteen years before. Southwestern France.]_

The summer was over, and school had begun. Sanji didn’t mind too much because at six and a half years old he was big enough to start attending elementary school, which was way more exciting than preschool had been. For a start it was bigger, so he could make more friends.

Or at least, that was the plan. After only a couple of months at the new school, what Sanji was finding was that making friends was easier in theory than in practice.

He tried. Making sure he was in the vicinity when other kids were picking sides for games in breaktime; sitting down at a table at lunch where there was already a group of chattering friends. But somehow that’s where he always stayed: on the fringes, an onlooker.

Gradually, Sanji began to notice things. Like how most kids who were popular, who were always on the inside of the little groups of his schoolmates, were the ones with nice clothes and the latest lunchbox and designer sneakers. And even the ones who didn’t have all that stuff were always talking about what movie they’d seen at the weekend, or their favourite Nintendo game to play.

Sanji couldn’t talk about any of that. And the things he did talk about to kids at school were, he quickly learned, not cool. For instance: when he’d told them how he’d made Sora a cake for her birthday, proud at having been trusted to use the oven for the first time, he’d received some puzzled looks.

_\- You made a cake for your mother? Can’t she cook, or something?_

Or when he brought in his favourite book at the moment, _Pierrot The Clownfish_ , the kids he’d showed it to had shrugged.

_\- Finding Nemo’s way better._

And Sanji hadn’t seen _Finding Nemo_ yet, because Sora buying the things he had needed to start school had meant they didn’t have much left over for treats. He’d found the _Pierrot The Clownfish_ book on a secondhand book stall at the market a whole year ago, long before _Finding Nemo_ came out. But when he tried to explain that to the other kids, they just looked confused, or bored.

_\- Bof, who cares? Anyway, that’s a book for babies._

Which put-down never failed to make Sanji blush, even while he also felt the beginnings of a hot, angry feeling bubbling up inside.

The other kids caught on fast to the fact that Sanji blushed easily. They even made it into their nickname for him: _Rougi_. Blusher.

He’d never realised before that changing colour so easily would be such a liability. It wasn’t cool: only girls blushed, boys weren’t supposed to. And the worst thing was that once the kids spotted him starting to go pink they pointed it out: _Hey, look at Rougi! He’s turning into a tomato again._ Which of course only brought the blood harder into Sanji’s cheeks.

He didn’t give up on school, though. Kept trying to find a way into that charmed inner circle, the kids who were friendly and chattered and played together at breaktimes. No matter how many times he got ignored, or laughed at.

Sanji discovered that if he stayed on the sidelines and kept very quiet, sometimes he could be part of things. Especially if he did things for other kids, like letting them copy his answers in a class math test or sharing the nicest bits of his packed lunch with them.

Food was definitely a way in. Even though you weren’t supposed to bring sweets to school, kids did. Sora usually filled Sanji’s lunchbox with a baguette sandwich and some fruit, but occasionally there would be a treat too: a couple of cookies, a small chocolate bar. Sanji used these as currency to buy his way into conversations at lunchtime, sharing or even giving them away. If he’d been one of the cooler kids then someone would have traded treats with him, but he supposed it would take time to get to that envied pinnacle of popularity.

It wasn’t like he was the only kid in the class who got left out. There was tubby Gabriel, who was always last being picked for things. Or Luc, who looked frayed and grimy and kept falling asleep in class, who smelled so bad no-one wanted to sit next to him. And Farid, who was Algerian (at least his parents were), and joined halfway through the autumn term.

As two outcasts, Sanji and Farid naturally ended up sitting together. Which was how Sanji made his first actual friend at school, because Farid was actually shyly welcoming and moreover brought in yummy things for lunch: spicy _merguez_ sausages, cheese-stuffed _bourek_ pastries, or chunks of _baklawa_ dripping with honey and crushed nuts.

Having a friend made a big difference to how school felt. It was easier to be on the outside when there was someone there with you. But Sanji never quite stopped wanting things to be different: for the other kids to stop calling him Rougi, to listen when he had things to tell, to beckon him over at lunchtime because they had saved him a seat.

Most especially, he wanted things to be different because of Coralie.

Coralie sat on the end of the row of desks, one row in front of Sanji. She had long curly hair the colour of dark honey, big brown eyes and a mischievous grin which she used often. She liked to wear t-shirts with animals on; she always whispered to her friend Léa during lessons and kept getting told off by their teacher; when she read aloud in class she sometimes lisped her S’s; and Sanji was completely, utterly smitten with her.

He wanted to join in the games she and her friends played in break time, except for the fact that the games were girls-only and this would consign him even further into the realms of weird outsiderdom. He wanted to sit next to her at lunch and share his treats when he had them (not that Coralie needed those: her own lunchbox was always packed with healthy and delicious-looking food like salads arranged into patterns, sliced fruit and toasted nuts, or slices of homemade quiche). During class he would gaze at her from behind, watching the way she twisted a curl of hair round her finger while listening to the lesson.

One lunchtime when he and Farid were pooling their lunchbox resources, Sanji decided to enlist his friend to his cause. Taking a bite of his apple, Sanji made a cautious enquiry. “What do you think of Coralie?”

Farid considered the question, before carefully offering his opinion. “She’s okay.”

“Mmm.” Sanji used his friend’s response as permission to keep the conversation going. “I think she’s really nice.”

“I don’t really know her.” Farid shook his head.

“Me either.” _But I want to._ “I wonder...what kind of stuff she likes.”

“Cake.” Farid pronounced this with emphatic certainty.

“Oh?” Sanji regarded his friend quizzically. “How’d you know?”

“I heard her telling her friends how her mother always packs healthy things for her lunch, how she’s never allowed to bring sweets or cake or anything like that. She said if it was up to her she’d bring the biggest piece of chocolate cake she could for lunch, and nothing else.”

When his Sora met him at the school gate at home time that day, Sanji ran to meet her. “ _Maman_ , can we go buy some things to make a chocolate cake?”

His mother bent down and kissed him on the cheek, before ruffling his hair in greeting. “Hey, little chick. How about hello?”

“Hello...” Sanji gave her a quick smile, before giving a quick glance round to see if any of his classmates were within range. Being seen getting kissed by your mother was seriously uncool.

“That’s better.” Sora smiled back. “What’s all this about chocolate cake? Are you having cooking lessons at school? That sounds like fun.”

“No... I want to make a cake. At home. To bring in to school.”

“Ah?” With a nod of her head, his mother began walking, leading the way homewards. “Is it for someone’s birthday?”

“Umm... No.” Sanji tugged on the straps of his school backpack, wondering how much to say. “It’s just... a surprise. For a friend.”

“That’s a nice thing to want to do, _chéri_. Is it for Farid?”

“It’s for a girl in my class. Her name’s Coralie.” This much admitted, Sanji clammed up.

“Oh ho, for a girl?” Sora looked sidelong at him and chuckled. “You’ve started courting early. Is she pretty, this Coralie?”

Feeling his face go pink to the ears, Sanji stared at the pavement they were walking along. Wanting to say _Yes_ , but feeling like if he did his mother would tease him even more. He settled for muttering a reply that hopefully sounded offhand, borrowing Farid’s words. “She’s okay.”

“And you want to make Coralie a chocolate cake?” Sora reached out and lightly ruffled his hair. “Are you sure she’s only okay? Chocolate cake sounds to me like you think she’s more than that.”

“ _Maman_...” Sanji hunched his shoulders, feeling the blood burning into his face.

“All right, little chick.” His mother relented. “Ingredients shouldn’t cost too much... How about you make her a chocolate cupcake? I’m sure she’ll like that.”

Sanji chewed his lip, unsure. In his mind he’d pictured a big chocolate gateau. But of course, even cake ingredients cost money. “Can it have sprinkles and chocolate icing?”

“Absolutely. On one condition.” Looking up hopefully, Sanji met his mother’s level gaze. “That you introduce me to your friend sometime soon. Deal?”

 _She’s not my friend yet._ Sanji swallowed: but Sora didn’t have to know that. And maybe, if he made a really good chocolate cake, Coralie would become his friend. And he could sit and eat lunch with her at school. Just maybe, he’d finally be included in that charmed inner circle.

On the way home they detoured to the supermarket and bought all the things they would need. Sora helped Sanji get started at home with measuring out the ingredients, but after that Sanji did nearly everything himself. Creaming butter and sugar together, then stirring in beaten egg; adding vanilla, then sifting the flour and cocoa; gently folding the mixture together until it was right, then spooning a dollop into each little scalloped paper cupcake case.

Nine little cakes came out of the oven nicely risen and perfectly browned: once they were cool Sanji spread each one with chocolate icing and scattered them with rainbow-coloured sprinkles. Finally he stood back and regarded the cakes solemnly, tilting his head sideways.

“They look beautiful.” His mother put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Well done, little chick.

The next morning Sanji carried the cupcakes into school in a cardboard box. He tucked the box carefully into his locker, before hurrying to class. He spent most of the morning gazing at Coralie from behind, mentally rehearsing how he was going to approach her with the cakes at lunch break.

When the midday bell rang, Sanji waited until all the other kids had gone... But when he came out the classroom to go to his locker, Farid was standing there, holding his lunch bag. When he saw Sanji, the other boy gave his shy smile. “Okay, Sanji?”

“Yeah.” Sanji opened his locker; took out the box of cakes... Then hesitated. He wanted to hurry into the lunchroom, walk up to Coralie and give her the cakes, watch her eat one. Hear her say, _This is yummy, Sanji! Sit down, come and eat here with us!_

Farid stood patiently waiting, still smiling his shy smile. And Sanji looked down at his box of cakes, then back up at his friend. The boy who’d sat next to him every day at lunch; who’d shared with Sanji all the delicious home-cooked foods his mother had parcelled up.

Slowly, Sanji opened the box. “Uhm... I made some cupcakes. Want one?”

Farid’s dark brown eyes grew big when he saw them. “Wow...”

They each ate a cupcake, before heading into the lunchroom. Once inside Sanji looked around, spotting Coralie across the room with Léa and a few of their other friends.

As Farid sat down at the table in the corner which was their usual spot, Sanji paused: then before he could lose his nerve he walked across the room, feeling like he was floating through the space, the lunchroom seeming much bigger than it ever had done before.

As he reached Coralie’s table, Léa saw him first but pretended not to. Sanji was right beside the table before Coralie noticed him. She turned in her chair a little, giving him a questioning look. He put the box on the table in front of her, with a quick smile. “I made cake to share today. I thought you might like some.”

A small frown of confusion dinted Coralie’s brows, before she leaned forward and lifted up the box lid. “Oooh - they look yummy.” Taking out one of the cupcakes, she carefully peeled away the paper case and bit into it. “Mmmm... So good!”

Léa took a cake too, copying her friend. “Not half bad. You _made_ this?”

“Yes.” Sanji saw Coralie’s mouth curve up at the corners in a big smile, and felt his heart begin to glow.

“This is awesome.” The curly-haired girl beamed at him. “Can I have another?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, you want to come and eat lunch with us?”

It was his dream come true. And Sanji took a deep breath, and nodded. Before saying, “If Farid can come and sit here too.”

Both girls blinked, then looked over at Farid sitting on his own. Watching them.

Coralie gave a shrug, and smiled again. “Yeah, okay.”

It was as simple as that. Two minutes later Sanji and Farid were sitting at the table with Coralie and Léa and the other cool kids. Thanks to the magic of chocolate cake.

Things got better at school after that. Some of the kids in Sanji’s class still called him Rougi, but Coralie liked him so that was all that mattered.

For the last day of school before Christmas they were all asked to bring in snacks to share in a festive lunch: Sanji enlisted Sora’s help to bake _sablés_ , butter cookies cut into the shapes of stars, Christmas trees and hearts. They were a hit with the kids at school, and when his mother met him at the school gate afterwards Sanji ran to her grinning ear to ear.

“They liked my cookies! They really liked them!”

“Of course they did, _chéri_.” Sora grinned back.

“Hey, Sanji!” Coralie’s voice made Sanji look round. The familiar face of his classmate appeared through the flow of departing children and parents, accompanied by a woman whose curly flowing hair and dark eyes matched her daughter’s. “You want to come over to play at mine this holidays?”

“Not very polite, Coralie.” The woman shook her head, then shrugged at Sora. “Please excuse my daughter, madame. She’s never been one for social niceties.” She gave them a wry look. “I’m Adèle Girardot. Nice to meet you.”

Sanji’s mother smiled. “Sora Lenoire. And this is my son, Sanji.”

“Ah, the boy who makes such delicious cake.” Adèle looked at Sanji. “Coralie was raving about that for days.” Her tone didn’t sound totally happy about this. “Unusual for a boy to be so interested in cooking, at his age. Did you encourage him, Madame Lenoire?”

“No, it was Sanji’s idea,” Sora replied quietly, still smiling.

“Your husband is a chef, perhaps? It must run in the family!”

Sanji saw his mother’s smile fix a little. “It’s just Sanji and me. We’re a team; eh, _chèri_?”

“Oh: I didn’t realise you were a widow... I’m sorry.”

Sora gave a quick little shake of her head. “I’m not a widow. I never married.”

Coralie’s mother’s gaze dropped to Sora’s left hand, which was bare of a wedding ring. “...I see.”

There was a moment of silence: then Madame Girardot gave her daughter a little tap on the shoulder. “Well, we must go, Coralie. The shopping won’t do itself.”

“Ugh, shopping.” Coralie pulled a face. “Have we got to?”

“If you want supper tonight, yes.” Madame Girardot gave Sora and Sanji a quick, cold smile. “Nice to have met you both. Merry Christmas.” And with that she hustled her daughter away, Coralie giving Sanji a wave as she went.

Sora watched them go, eyes narrowed. Muttered something under her breath, which to Sanji sounded very like _Bitch._

Sanji wasn’t sure what had just happened. “ _Maman?”_

“Yes, little chick?” Sora was still looking away.

“Can I go play at Coralie’s this holidays?”

Turning to look at him, Sora had a wry expression on her face. “You’ll have to wait for her mother to invite you.”

“ _Coralie_ invited me,” Sanji pointed out.

“Yes, but it isn’t Coralie’s house. It’s her mother’s.” Sora let out a low sigh, then brought an unconvincing smile onto her face. “Ouf... I’m getting cold standing around here, _chéri_. Let’s go home and get cosy. We can finish off that pot of mushroom soup, and watch TV snuggled up on the sofa.”

And that was that. Coralie’s mother never phoned to ask if Sanji could come round to play in the Christmas holidays: and Sanji didn’t exactly understand why, but guessed it had something to do with his _maman_ not being married and him not having a dad.

Not having a dad was something that Sanji had gotten used to, although it always made him anxious when the other kids at school talked about their parents. Those conversations that started with, _My dad works in the town hall. What does yours do?_ Even answering by saying his mother was a night concièrge in a hotel wasn’t an option, because Sora had always told him to be careful what he answered to questions like these.

_\- If anyone ever asks, chéri: just tell them I work as a hotel receptionist._

_\- Which hotel do you work in, maman? Can I come and see it sometime?_

_\- No. I’m not allowed to bring you to work._

When school started again in the new year, Coralie seemed to have forgotten about Sanji coming round to play. She was still friendly at school, but whenever Sanji encountered her mother at the school gate, Madame Girardot either looked straight through him or frowned and looked away. She always seemed to be hurrying off as soon as she collected Coralie: and never said hello to Sanji’s mother. Sora was always standing on her own outside the school gate, a little way off from the other mothers. Sanji wondered about this.

“ _Maman?”_

“Yes, little chick?”

“Have you got any friends?”

Sora gave him a curious look, as they walked swiftly homewards one cold blustery winter evening. “That’s a funny question. Why do you want to know?”

“When I come out you’re always standing on your own. And all the other mums are together.” Sanji tried to put into words what he’d been thinking. “When I first started school all the other kids sat together at lunch and I sat on my own, before me and Farid were friends.”

Brows drawing together, Sora gazed at him, with an expression Sanji didn’t understand. “I’m very sorry to hear that, _chéri_.” Her hand gave his a little squeeze. “That sounds like you might have felt a bit lonely.”

Considering this, Sanji gave a quick nod. “S’okay now. Me and Farid are friends.”

“And Coralie too?”

“Yes.” Sanji wasn’t sure about this. “At school. Léa’s her friend too, but she goes to Coralie’s house to play...” He trailed off, feeling hesitant about saying anything more.

Sora was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe you and Coralie will have to be at-school friends.”

“I think maybe, Coralie’s _maman_ doesn’t like me.”

His mother stopped dead, turning to face him. “Has she said something to you?” Her voice had gone tight, her mouth settling into a grim line.

Sanji felt a hot jolt of anxiety run through him. “No.”

“Then why do you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Sanji mumbled, wishing he hadn’t embarked on this conversation.

Sora studied him for a few moments, her eyes searching his. Then she suddenly crouched down and wrapped him into a tight hug. Holding him pressed against her, she spoke quietly but firmly. “Sanji, there is no reason for anyone not to like you. You’re a sweet, kind boy with a good heart. I’m sorry it’s been hard for you making friends at school, but that’s not because of anything you’ve done wrong. Do you understand?”

“...Yes.” Sanji was slightly confused by the intensity of the hug, even though it was nice.

His mother pulled back enough to be able to look him in the eyes again. “You know, I think you’re being very grown up talking to me about this. If I told you something, do you think you could keep it just between us, like grown-ups do? - I mean, not tell Farid, or Coralie, or any of the other children at school.”

This wasn’t what Sanji had been expecting. “O-okay...”

Sora smiled then, holding his shoulders gently. “When you get older, you’ll understand this stuff more, _chéri_. But for now, I want you to know: sometimes people don’t like us because we don’t fit in with how they think the world should be. It’s not something we’ve done wrong; it’s just that there are all these rules when you’re a grown up of how you should live... And it’s not always easy to follow the rules. Or maybe you don’t _want_ to follow the rules. But for lots of people the rules are important, and they get angry when other people don’t follow them.”

Sanji considered this. “So Coralie’s maman is angry ‘cos you never got married, and ‘cos I don’t have a dad?”

His mother took a deep breath; he felt her hands grip his shoulders. “You know you have a dad, I told you that a long time ago. He just isn’t part of our life. And as for me never having got married... That is no-one’s business but mine.”

“Will I ever see my dad?”

“No, _chéri_.” Sora spoke clearly, looking him in the eyes. “It’s better that we don’t.”

There was a long moment where neither of them said anything. Sanji wondered if he’d made his mother angry, asking about these things. But that was the hard thing about being told he was grown-up enough to understand: he _didn’t_ always understand, even when he had things explained to him.

Sora was watching him carefully. After a pause, she touched his cheek lightly with one hand. “I’m sorry it’s confusing, little chick. But you know that I love you, right?”

Sanji nodded. That was something he had no doubts about whatsoever.

“We’re a team, you and me. We’ll be fine. If anyone ever says anything mean to you, whether that’s someone at school or a grown-up, I want you to tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Cool.” She nodded firmly, then leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the top of his head before standing up. “Let’s go home.”


	11. Disappearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Sora finished her cigarette, the sun was dipping below the Pyrenées. Sanji brushed his teeth, got into his pyjamas, and scrambled into bed. His mother bent down and gave him her goodnight kiss and hug, before smoothing the duvet flat over him. “Sleep tight, little chick: sweet dreams. Love you. I’ll see you in the morning.”
> 
> “G’night.” Sanji burrowed under the covers, snuggling into the duvet: now the sun was gone their apartment wasn’t very warm. They never put on the heating after winter was over, it cost too much money.
> 
> He heard Sora’s footsteps cross the room; the rattle and click of their apartment lock; then the creak and quiet clunk of the door closing. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Sanji considered what food he was going to think about tonight. Maybe... meringues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: childhood trauma; descriptions of starvation.

* * *

_I feel like I'm disappearing_   
_Getting smaller every day_

_\- Sonic Youth_

* * *

Winter crept into spring in southern France. The days lost their chill and there were wildflowers appearing on the road verges, sunshine making it warm enough at midday to sit out on the balcony of the little apartment Sanji and his mother shared.

One Saturday evening in April Sanji sat out there, gazing at the tiled roof below to see if he could spot César now the weather was getting warmer. He heard his mother’s shoes click across the tiled floor inside, then the balcony door creaked further open. “There you are, little chick. It’s nearly bedtime.”

“I want to stay till I see César.”

“Hmm... That depends if he’s out and about.” Sora sat in the chair alongside Sanji, peering out over the roof as well. “It’s still cool, in the evenings. Maybe he’s already gone to bed himself.”

“Till the bats come out, then?”

“The bats only wake up after the sun’s gone down. You’ll be tucked up in bed by then.”

“It’s Easter holidays,” Sanji pointed out. “Can’t I stay up late?”

“You’ll be a grumpy monster tomorrow, if you do. And that’s no fun, for you or me.” Sora reached out and ruffled his hair. “Even if there’s no school tomorrow, you still need proper sleep.”

Sanji made no reply, propping his chin on his arms and gazing firmly at the roof tiles below.

After a moment, Sora sighed and took out her cigarettes. “...Okay, mister. You can stay up until I’ve had my smoke: then it’s bed, no arguments.”

Sanji grinned into his arms. “Yes, _maman_.”

They sat there in companionable silence for a while. The clear spring sky started to tint from blue into gold as the sun dropped lower towards the mountains of the Pyrenées; the breeze brought the sounds of waves curling onto the beach; a faint whiff of tobacco smoke reached Sanji, even though Sora blew it away from him.

“Canigou has still got his white hat on,” Sora observed with a smile, gazing towards the highest mountain peak, topped with snow. “It must still be pretty chilly up there.”

“Can we go there, one day?” Sanji asked.

“Climb to the top of Canigou? Bof! Only if you pull me up.”

“I can do that! Can we?”

“It’s a long way to go, _chéri_. Further than Perpignan.”

That meant, Sanji knew, that it was too far for them to afford the bus fare to. He rested his head sideways on his arms and gazed at Canigou’s snowy summit, hazy in the distance. “I wish we could go...”

“Maybe one day.” Sora released a blue-grey smoky breath. “You can pull me up there, and we’ll plant a flag at the top.”

By the time Sora finished her cigarette, the sun was dipping below the Pyrenées. Sanji brushed his teeth, got into his pyjamas, and scrambled into bed. His mother bent down and gave him her goodnight kiss and hug, before smoothing the duvet flat over him. “Sleep tight, little chick: sweet dreams. Love you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“G’night.” Sanji burrowed under the covers, snuggling into the duvet: now the sun was gone their apartment wasn’t very warm. They never put on the heating after winter was over, it cost too much money.

He heard Sora’s footsteps cross the room; the rattle and click of their apartment lock; then the creak and quiet clunk of the door closing. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Sanji considered what food he was going to think about tonight. Maybe... meringues. White sugary peaks, like snow on Canigou. Crunching through the crisp outside, inside as light as a cloud.

When Sanji awoke, the light was wrong. He lay curled under the duvet for a little while, not quite knowing why things felt out of kilter. At last, yawning, he sat up: rubbed his head and looked around. Sunlight was streaming through the curtain that covered the door to the balcony, peeking through a chink where the curtain didn’t quite reach and making a long golden shaft along the tiled floor.

Rubbing his head again, Sanji realised he needed to pee. He got up and went to the bathroom, tiptoeing on the chilly floor. Coming back he looked at the door to his mother’s room: it was closed.

There was no clock in the main room where he slept, but Sanji’s stomach felt like it ought to be breakfast time. He wondered if his mother had gotten back from work earlier than usual, while it was still night-time: sometimes that happened, and she went to bed after showering.

Cautiously he listened at the door of Sora’s room, his ear pressed lightly against the wood. No sounds came through. Very carefully he put his hand on the handle and twisted it, before easing the door open a few inches and peering through.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dusky, but he could see his mother’s bed, neat with the covers pulled up. Sora hadn’t come back early after all.

Letting out sigh, Sanji closed the door again, and returned to the sofabed. His bare feet were cold from the tiled floor, so he scrambled back into bed and wrapped the duvet up around himself like an Indian tepee.

_Maman’s late finishing work._

It had happened before, though not often. Sora would eventually return home, apologetic and looking tired, and make them both an extra-big breakfast to make up for it.

_\- Sorry, little chick. I just couldn’t get away from work, it’s been a crazy night. But I brought us pain au chocolat for breakfast, on my way home. Have a smell, they’re still nice and warm from the bakery!_

Sitting in his duvet tent, Sanji wondered if it actually was breakfast time. He remembered suddenly that on his mother’s bedside table was a small alarm clock. Extracting himself from the duvet he padded to Sora’s room again; crept inside, and found the clock. The digital display glowed red as he read the numbers. 10:38 AM.

No wonder he felt hungry!

Returning to the main room, Sanji went to the curtain over the door that led to the balcony, and drew it open. Outside it was bright sunshine, a blue spring sky. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then turned and went back to his duvet nest to consider what to do next.

Maybe _maman_ would be home really soon... Or maybe not. But Sanji was hungry, right _now_. And he knew how to fix himself breakfast, he wasn’t a baby.

Investigating the refrigerator, he found an almost-full carton of milk. On the counter was a jumbo box of rice pops: not the chocolate kind which were too pricey, but with plenty of sugar these were okay. Fetching a bowl and a spoon Sanji dished himself up a good-sized portion and sprinkled it with sugar; poured on a big gloop of milk (maybe a bit too much milk, it came out the carton quicker than he was expecting)... Then he decamped back to the sofabed and fell to eating his breakfast, wrapped in the duvet.

After finishing his cereal, he rinsed his bowl and spoon and stacked them by the sink to dry. Then he considered what he should do next. Read a book? Make his bed?

He decided against the latter, mainly because his duvet nest was actually quite cosy for sitting in. After brushing his teeth and putting on a long-sleeved t-shirt and his trousers, he curled up on top of the duvet with his currently-favourite book: _Plume The Pirate_. Plume was a kid in a pirate family, who wore a hat with a crossed spoon and fork on it and always had strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. Sanji’s own fringe was forever growing too quickly: his mother would lift it up with one finger, peering into his eyes and winking at him.

_\- Ah, there’s your other eye, hiding away. I was pretty sure you had two of them!_

When he got tired of reading, Sanji switched on the TV and watched cartoons. The sun tracked across the apartment floor, warming the room a little. After a couple of hours the cartoons gave way to a news programme, which Sanji quickly got tired of. He realised that he was feeling hungry again.

Making another trip to check the clock in Sora’s bedroom again, Sanji blinked when he saw the time. 14:17. Later than his mother had ever gotten home before.

_She’ll come soon._

For now, there was lunch to think about. Opening the refrigerator, Sanji gazed at what was inside. The carton of milk; a wedge of camembert and a bit of butter; two fruit yoghurts and a box of eggs; half a cucumber and some tomatoes; an onion, some garlic, a lemon and a red pepper; the remains of a jar of mayonnaise; and a carton of orange juice.

Foraging in the rest of the kitchen yielded a few more possible lunch ingredients: a packet of crisps, bananas in a bowl on the counter, and wrapped up in paper half a baguette that had only gone a little bit stale.

Sanji made himself a cheese and tomato sandwich, using some of the baguette (leaving the rest in case maman got back home hungry). He took the packet of crisps and poured himself a big glassful of orange juice, adding a banana for dessert. It was mild enough now to sit out on the balcony so he ate his improvised lunch out there, looking out to sea.

Having eaten he felt better. He stayed out on the balcony for a while; but as the afternoon drew on clouds drifted across the blue sky and a blustery spring storm blew in from the sea, driving him back inside the apartment. The duvet nest looked cosy and inviting, so Sanji burrowed back into it, taking his book with him.

The sound of rain pattering on the balcony was comforting, somehow. It was wet and chilly outside, but he was inside in his warm comfy den, like a bear hibernating in winter. Sanji tried curling up like a bear might, pulling the duvet right up over his head: but it got too hot under there, so he stuck his head out again.

The storm had darkened the sky and the room was faded into twilight colours, even though it was only afternoon. Sanji found himself yawning. It was a funny, unusual day, so maybe it was okay to take a nap, even though it wasn’t bedtime.

_Maybe when I wake up, maman will be back?_

Tugging the duvet tighter around himself, Sanji yawned again, shutting his eyes. Listening to the sounds of the rain, falling steadily from the sky.

He woke suddenly. It was dark; and the apartment was silent. And he was cold, his covers somehow slipped askew and tumbling over the side of the sofabed.

Shivering, Sanji sat up. Looked across the room, blinking in the darkness.

_I fell asleep?_

Sliding out from under the duvet, he padded barefoot across the floor and through to his mother’s room. Crept his fingers along the wall until he found the lightswitch there, and turned it on.

Light, shockingly bright, suddenly turned indistinct shadows into bright clarity. Sanji blinked, screwing his eyes shut a little. Sora’s bed was still empty. And when he looked over at the little clock, the glowing numbers now said 2:43 AM. A time that felt unnatural, a part of the night he had no familiarity with.

Sanji blinked again and stood gazing at the clock, his toes curling against the chilly smoothness of the floor. Aware that everything was still and quiet.

_Maman?_

Sora had never been this late. Not ever. Sanji wondered for a moment why this might be – but instinctively abandoned the thought.

_She’ll come soon._

He felt cold, and sleepy, and a bit anxious. But he could solve these problems by going back to bed. And when he woke up, his mother would be there, humming softly as she moved about the kitchen. Giving him a quick smile when she saw he was awake.

_\- I’m sorry, little chick. I had to work really late._

Sanji went back to the main room and crawled into his bed, pulling the duvet over his head to warm up. He thought hard only about his mother being there when he woke up. Not wishing or imagining: just believing.

But when the following morning came, Sanji woke in an apartment that was still quiet and empty, apart from himself. When he stumbled through into Sora’s room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the time on the clock showed 11.17 AM.

Sanji stared at the clock. Feeling a rising sense of injustice at the world refusing to conform to what he’d tried to believe the night before.

_She’ll come soon._

It was becoming a sort of incantation, in his head. A spell to be recited, to make it come true. And to make it come true, he wouldn’t think anything else.

He ate the remaining half of the baguette from the day before, a bit staler and chewier now. There was still a bit of camembert and one tomato left so he ate those too, washing the food down with another glass of orange juice. He sat at the kitchen table, swinging his feet under his chair. Looking at the daylight streaming through the balcony window, trying not to think about the inevitable night to come.

The hours passed and afternoon became evening. This time when it got dark he left the curtain open, curling up in his duvet on the sofabed and watching the faint pin-prick lights of stars appear in the night sky he could see out the window.

The next day he woke earlier: a little before nine o’clock. The apartment was still silent as he got up and made himself a bowlful of rice pops, with the last of the milk. Feeling slightly guilty, because maman would have to buy more milk before she could have her coffee.

And deep inside, a small angry part of him thought: _Well, she should’ve got home earlier, then I wouldn’t have drunk it._

The morning dragged. He got _Plume The Pirate_ and tried to read, but the story felt flat and far away. On one trip to the bathroom he noticed that his hair was sticking up in tufts where he’d slept on it funny: he filled the washbasin with water and plunged his head in, holding his breath, before scrubbing his head with a towel and then combing his hair flat. His t-shirt got wet doing this, so he took it off and found a dry one from the closet in Sora’s room.

Returning to the kitchen for lack of anything else to do, Sanji felt the beginnings of hunger grumbling in his stomach again. He let out a small sigh and sat down at the table, chin propped in his hands. His gaze roamed around the room.

Sometimes when money was shorter than usual and they couldn’t afford to go shopping, he and his mother would play the Desert Island Game.

_\- We’re shipwrecked pirates washed ashore on a desert island, chéri: like Robinson Crusoe. All we have to survive are the few things that washed ashore with us, our emergency provisions... We have to make them last till we’re rescued!_

There were still three bananas left; two yoghurts in the fridge, and the vegetables. And some rice pops, but no more milk.

_Do rice pops work with orange juice?_

Sanji hoped he wouldn’t have to try it. And anyway, he’d eaten cereal already for breakfast: he didn’t want to eat it for lunch too.

Getting down from the table, he methodically investigated the kitchen. Opening the two cupboards and the drawers; looking along the high shelf by the cooker. Making a list in his head, of everything that had been washed ashore on his desert island.

As well as the things he’d already counted, he discovered two tins of tomatoes, a tin of haricot beans, and a tin of sardines. An opened packet of spaghetti; a few pots of dried herbs, and some olive oil. In the freezer compartment of their little fridge was a pizza, a packet of green beans, and a tub of vanilla ice cream that had only a few scoops left in it. Lastly, in a drawer he found an unopened packet of chocolate biscuits, the nice kind that Sora usually saved for special occasions.

Apart from things like salt and coffee and flour, that was pretty much everything. They never kept lots of stuff in their kitchen: Sanji and his mother went shopping every week, and Sora usually bought mostly fresh ingredients because, she said, it was nicer than the ready-made stuff in packets and tins. Also, Sanji knew, because it was cheaper.

All this taking inventory took a little while. When he’d finished, Sanji considered his options for what to make into a late lunch (or an early supper, he wasn’t sure which). He’d helped his mother make omelettes loads of times, they hadn’t been difficult.

Carefully Sanji cracked one of the eggs from the fridge into a bowl, scooping out a couple of little bits of eggshell that fell in. Then he whisked it up with a fork, as his mother had shown him how to do: put in a couple of pinches of dried herbs and some salt and pepper. Next he put a frying pan on the cooker with a blob of butter, and cautiously switched on the electric ring beneath it. He wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the cooker easily, so he dragged over one of the chairs from the kitchen table and knelt on it.

The butter melted and began to sizzle, so Sanji tipped the beaten egg into the pan. As it cooked he stirred it up with a spatula, the way he remembered his mother doing: then tried to fold the omelette in half. It didn’t quite work but the egg seemed to cook anyway. He had to scrape out the finished result onto his plate because it stuck to the pan, and what he ate looked more like scrambled eggs than an omelette... But it tasted okay.

Getting the frying pan clean afterwards took ages, though.

The light began to fade as evening came on. Sanji curled up on the sofabed again, but didn’t feel like reading or watching TV. Instead he gazed out of the balcony window, watching the sky turn yellow, then orange as the sun dipped lower. Gradually it faded to lilac twilight; then darkened to purple as the first bats flickered past.

_\- The bats only wake up after the sun’s gone down. You’ll be tucked up in bed by then._

His mother’s voice replayed in his head. And suddenly Sanji wanted more than anything to rewind time back three days, to be sitting on the balcony in the sunset with her smoking a cigarette beside him, the sounds of the sea in the distance and the soft exhale as Sora blew silvery smoke sideways into the gathering dusk.

_Why doesn’t she come home?_

It was a question he hadn’t let come into his head before, but now it was there. Even just thinking it made his stomach hurt.

_She will come home tonight._

Sanji wished for it fiercely, defensively. Wanting the sick, churning feeling in his middle to go away.

_\- We’re a team, you and me. We’ll be fine._

It was true: whatever else had changed, wherever they had lived over the years, his mother was the constant in his universe. They were a team: looking out for each other, doing things together. Sharing warm croissants for breakfast; laughing at a funny film on TV; trying to jump on each other’s shadow on the beach.

There was nothing Sanji could do except wait. He didn’t know the name of the hotel where his mother worked as a night concierge; and anyway, the only phone they had was the mobile that Sora took with her to work.

Curling up more tightly on the sofabed, Sanji tried to remember if his mother had said anything three nights ago, that he’d somehow forgotten or not listened to properly. Some clue about why she might be away from home longer than ever before. But all he could remember was them talking about climbing up Canigou one day. Then his mother tucking him into bed. And he thought he remembered her wishing him sweet dreams, that she’d see him in the morning... But maybe he was remembering wrong?

It was properly dark outside, now. Sanji uncurled himself and got off the bed, going to the balcony door on tiptoe and drawing the curtain closed. Climbing back under his duvet he buried his feet deep and tugged the coverlet around himself, shutting his eyes tightly to shut out the night.

The next morning, Sora didn’t come. Or the next. On the fifth day without his mother Sanji didn’t even get out of bed. He stayed curled under the duvet, only creeping out to the bathroom or to the kitchen to get a banana and the packet of chocolate biscuits. He wasn’t really hungry anyway: his stomach had a tight ache in it and somehow swallowing food was difficult.

When evening came and it got dark he put the TV on and watched it, the apartment lit only by the flickering glow of the screen. He fell asleep to the TV’s murmur and shifting light... Only to wake in the early hours of the morning with it still beaming out images.

Sanji crawled from his bed and switched the TV off. Instantly the apartment fell into darkness and silence. Standing there with his bare feet growing cold on the floor, Sanji felt his skin prickle; a shiver run right through him.

_Why doesn’t she come home?_

A sob that he didn’t know was coming hiccupped out of him. Suddenly he was crying, properly crying in a way he hadn’t done for ages. It was a relief to give in to the hot, tight feeling in his chest and hollow ache in his stomach, and simply sob.

After a little while though the tears stopped coming and his breath caught, shook, and settled. Sanji wiped his arm across his face, smearing snot and tears away, before turning and climbing back into bed. He curled up under the duvet and lay there, blinking wetly at the dark room, feeling that strange sense of miserable exhaustion that came after crying.

_Please come home._

The tight feeling in his chest had lessened: instead there was just a heavy ache, as if a stone had been put in there.

_Please, maman._

Five days became a week. Then two weeks, and the Easter holidays were over, and Sanji ought to go back to school. Some part of him believed that his mother would be back for that, to make sure he didn’t miss school. School was important, it was one of those things they had to do right or else the people in charge would notice and maybe there’d be trouble.

The night before school term started Sanji went into Sora’s room and looked through their closet until he found some clean clothes: laid them out neatly on a chair next to his sofa bed, along with his school backpack and shoes. He couldn’t make a proper packed lunch because there was no bread left. In fact there wasn’t much of anything left in the kitchen: he’d mainly been eating cereal (with water, which was _yuck_ ) and bananas and biscuits, eked out with his occasional attempts at cooking. He’d almost got the hang of omelettes now; and two days ago he’d tried making spaghetti Bolognese with the tin of tomatoes and some of the vegetables from the fridge. The pasta had gone a bit gluey and the tomato sauce hadn’t tasted like it was supposed to, but he was so hungry for cooked food he’d bolted it down anyway.

Sanji woke early the next morning, to an apartment still quiet and empty of anyone but himself. Doggedly he got up and sort of made his bed; ate some cereal and water. As he was doing so, it suddenly occurred to him that if he was going out to school, he could walk past the shops and buy some milk on the way home. He felt happier for a few minutes... Until it dawned on him that he didn’t have any money. His spirits fell again.

After brushing his teeth, Sanji got his school backpack and jacket and headed for the apartment door. His hand reached up to the lock... Then froze.

_\- It’s really, really important that you remember this, chéri: when I’m not here, you must never open the door or go out. You have to stay inside, and wait till I get home. Do you understand?_

Sanji’s hand fell back down by his side. He stared at the door for almost a minute, hearing his mother’s voice in his head.

_\- When I’m not here: you mustn’t answer or open the door. Can you promise that for me?_

His school backpack was a familiar, comforting weight on his shoulders. He’d put the last yoghurt in his lunchbox, and a spoon to eat it with. If he went to school he’d see Coralie, and Farid, and maybe he’d be able to share some of Farid’s lunch. School wasn’t always the funnest place to be, but it was a known quantity. And Sanji wanted so badly to go out of the empty apartment where his mother wasn’t, and maybe if he did he could go looking for Sora and find her and he wouldn’t have to be on his own day after day wondering what had happened -

_\- We have to be careful, chéri. If those people thought I wasn’t doing my job as your maman properly, they could make life hard for us._

A heavy, smothering feeling settled over Sanji.

_I can’t. I promised._

Slowly, oh so slowly, he turned away from the apartment door. Took off his school backpack and took out the yoghurt and put it back in the fridge. Hung up the backpack with his coat; took off his shoes. Walked instead to the balcony door and opened it and went outside to sit on one of the two chairs; propped his elbows on the balcony ledge and rested his chin in his hands. All the time feeling that heaviness growing inside him, like a dark cloud blotting out sunlight.

_I don’t know what to do._

Skipping school was bad, he knew that. But maybe if he went to school and someone noticed his mother didn’t meet him at the school gate at the end of the day, that would be worse.

Part of him wanted to go anyway. The part of him that hoped that maybe because Sora had never missed meeting him after school, she would magically be there when he came out. But that part of him was dwindling, getting smaller and quieter. Hoping and wishing and wanting his mother to be there hadn’t worked.

The heavy-feeling dark cloud inside him was starting to feel hot and angry, too. Like lightning building in a thunderstorm, threatening to strike out in jagged blue-white spikes.

Sanji scowled out over the balcony, at the distant sea beyond. At the blue waves rolling in onto the sand, calm as if nothing was happening.

_I don’t know what to do!_

Grown-up rules were confusing and stupid. He was supposed to go to school: but he’d promised not to open the apartment door until his _maman_ came home.

But she’d promised she’d be there the next day, she’d said _I’ll see you in the morning_. And she had broken her promise, she didn’t come home that day or the next, she still wasn’t here and now it was time to go back to school so if Sanji didn’t go he’d get into trouble and it would all be Sora’s fault, all her fault –

He jumped to his feet and gave the chair next to him such a hard kick it fell over. Then he stormed back into the apartment and ran into his mother’s room, jumped onto her bed and grabbed her pillow: began hitting it with his fists, punching and punching until his arms ached. Lightning flashing and thunder rolling, the big dark thing inside him leaping out and swirling round the room.

At last he couldn’t hit any more. He fell face down into the bed, his mother’s pummelled pillow under his face, smelling of perfume and cigarettes and Sora. Breathing it in over and over. Crying again because that’s all that was left after the storm. Tired and miserable and angry and scared, lying there in his school clothes. Wanting his mother to come home so he could be swept up in a hug. Wanting her to come home so he could yell at her. Not understanding why she was doing this, why he’d been left alone for so long. What he’d done, to make this happen.

At the end of that week, a letter came in a brown envelope. Sanji picked it up from the doormat and looked at it: _Mme Lenoir_ , his mother’s name. He took it through to the main room and sat looking at it for a while.

It occurred to him that maybe there might be a clue in the letter about where his maman was. Quickly he tore the envelope open and pulled out the sheet of paper in there: unfolded it and stared at the printed text.

At the top of the letter the words _École Élémentaire Publique Anatole_ faced him in bold: the name of his school. Sanji felt his heart began to thud in his chest, and began tracing the words one at a time with a wobbly finger, reading them aloud to understand better.

“Dear Madame Lenoire, we are con... con-tac-ting you re-gard-ing your son Sanji’s un...au...thor...ised ab-sence, since the begin, um... begin-ning of term this week - ”

The letter didn’t take Sanji long to read. The school had phoned his mother but she hadn’t answered: so they were asking her to contact them by the middle of next week, to explain why Sanji hadn’t been in school.

Carefully folding the letter and putting it back in its envelope, Sanji went into Sora’s room and laid the letter on her pillow. Then he went through to the kitchen and sat at the table, folding his arms on it and pillowing his head on them.

The words of the letter swirled around in his head. It felt like he should do something, but what? Could he try writing a letter pretending to be his mother? No: that wouldn’t work, he couldn’t write neatly enough for it to look like a grown-up.

The small quiet sounds of the dripping kitchen tap drew his gaze towards it. Each silvery drop slowly swelling at the end of the tap; then falling with a soft plunk into the sink. It made him thirsty, so Sanji got up and carefully ran a glass full of water: took it back to the table and drank it in sips.

His stomach growled after he’d drunk the water. He was hungry, and there was nothing left to eat any more. In the fridge and freezer now there were only some wizened cloves of garlic; and there were no tins of food or cereal remaining. The last week he’d only eaten one meal a day: plain spaghetti with a few dried herbs, but now even the pasta was all gone.

Playing at being a desert island castaway wasn’t fun when it felt real. Sanji couldn’t stop thinking about food. His getting-to-sleep game of imagining his favourite meals had become a daydream he kept slipping into, several times a day. Picturing warm croissants torn open, spread with melting butter and dollops of jam; a steaming bowl of onion soup, with a wedge of fresh crusty bread; crisp golden fries with thick mayonnaise to dip them into.

His stomach growled again, louder. Sanji put one arm under the table and rubbed his middle, willing the ache there to go away.

The letter from his school kept floating into his mind, papery white flapping at him like a pestering seagull. He knew it was a problem, but he didn’t know what to do. And every time he tried to think about it, his thoughts kind of fizzled out.

That was happening a lot now. When he wondered about where his mother was, or when she would come home; or what he would do about having no food left... His mind would go all slow and foggy, as if a sea mist had drifted into it and filled it up with featureless blank grey. He would drift in this state for some time, watching TV without following the programmes or staring out to sea without really seeing it. Sleeping made everything go away for a while so he often curled up in bed for a nap, but waking up in the middle of the night was still horrible.

He’d started having nightmares, too. Waking from dreams where he was in the bathroom watching Sora’s face in the mirror, all purple and puffy and swollen, his mother with blood on the front of her blouse.

_\- Something happened. I had an accident._

His mother’s voice sounding hoarse and thick, wrong.

_\- I got a little bit hurt. But I’m all right, chéri. Everything’s going to be okay._

Then the bad dream got worse, as blood started to pour out of his mother’s mouth and nose and eyes, pooling on the bathroom floor. Or in the dream he would walk into her bedroom and she would be lying on her back on the bed, not moving, not breathing, eyes open but staring through him up at the ceiling. And when he touched her arm she felt stiff and so cold.

Sanji woke up shivering from those dreams. Wrapped his duvet tightly round himself and hugged his chest and stared into the darkness, willing the morning to arrive. Yet when it did and he was still alone in the apartment he wanted the night to come again, so he could sleep and forget.

A week after the first letter, a second one came. Sanji put it, unopened, next to the first one on his mother’s pillow. Then he made himself a cup of hot water and drank it, slowly. (He’d tried making coffee but its bitter blackness only sickened his empty stomach.)

One day he woke up and realised he didn’t know what day it was. Or even what month it was. He remembered it being the Easter holidays, what felt like a very long time ago. Was it still April?

His stomach didn’t hurt much now. But doing anything made him tired: walking to the bathroom, or fetching a glass of water. Mostly he stayed curled up on the sofabed, sometimes with the TV murmuring, sometimes just gazing out of the balcony window at the sea and the sky. Sitting outside on the balcony took too much effort: and the chair had become too hard to sit on. Somehow his bones felt sore.

Sanji was dozing on the sofabed one afternoon when a knocking sounded on his apartment door. The noise roused him from the blurry half-dreaming state he mostly stayed in now, making him sit up unsteadily and blink, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The knocking sounded again, louder. Then a woman’s voice came through the apartment door. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

Slowly clambering off the sofabed, feeling the thumping of his heart, Sanji stood up and tiptoed in a wobbly path towards the apartment entrance. He stopped a couple of metres away from the door, tucking himself inside the bathroom doorway but peeping out with just his head.

“Hello?” The woman called quite loudly, and knocked on the door again. “Madame Lenoir? I’m Estelle Bouchard, from Child Protective Services. If you’re at home, please can you open the door.”

Sanji shrank a little further into the bathroom, only one eye now looking around the doorframe.

“Is anyone home?” The woman sounded like she was on the verge of giving up. A few seconds later, Sanji heard her sigh. “Damn it...”

The letterbox started to open, as if the woman was trying to peek through. Sanji ducked completely out of sight in the bathroom. He waited for long moments... And then heard a soft papery noise, followed by the click of the letterbox closing. What sounded like a woman’s footsteps moving away down the passage outside.

When Sanji cautiously peered around the edge of the bathroom doorframe again there was another letter lying on the floor. He almost went to pick it up – then decided against it.

Slowly, with wobbly footsteps, he made his way back to the main room. Thought about getting a glass of water, but he was already tired from walking to the door and back. Instead he returned to his duvet nest and burrowed into the centre of it, trying to get warm. He felt cold a lot of the time now.

_Please come home._

It was something he thought, every time he curled up to go to sleep again. He wasn’t sure why he did this because it never worked: every time he woke up he was alone. But in the fuzzy grey mist of his mind it was the one thing he clung to.

The sun set and the room went dark; rose again and made everything bright. Sometimes when Sanji opened his eyes he could see yellow shafts of sunlight creeping across the ceiling; sometimes just shadows and darkness.

He dreamed confused, jumbled things that he couldn’t remember on waking. His skin itched and he scratched at it, leaving flaky red welts that wouldn’t heal. Sitting up made him dizzy, getting water from the kitchen became an expedition. Even when he was lying still his body felt sore, his arms and legs aching as if he had the ‘flu.

_Please come home Please come home Please come home_

His eyes burned when he cried now, but no tears came out. 

_Bom Bom Bom_

There was a heavy sound, a banging like a distant cannon, far away. Sanji could feel it tugging at him, pulling him from the dreamy shadow place he’d burrowed into. He didn’t want to leave: so he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stay there. He was floating out to sea on a boat, curled up safe, drifting over dark water.

The cannon banged again, a loud crash shattering his dream place. It was followed by the sounds of animals: sea monsters hooting and barking and chattering and snarling. Sanji felt something seize him and drag him overboard into the dark sea. He felt terror then, a great grasping horror that made him shudder and try to kick out; but nothing worked any more, his arms and legs wouldn’t move.

Through the snarling sea monsters came a man’s voice, close by somewhere.

“My god, the kid must’ve been here all alone.”

Then the ocean swallowed Sanji whole, swirling him down into a whirlpool that pulled him deep into the dark, where the monsters lived.


	12. Treated So Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Soulier went quiet for a moment, looking down at the floor and frowning a little. Then she let out a quiet sigh, before lifting her gaze to meet Sanji’s again. Steady and sorry-looking. She reached slowly out and took Sanji’s hand in her own, her cool dry fingers curling around his. “Sanji... I have to tell you something. I want you to listen very carefully. Okay?”
> 
> Sanji nodded. Feeling his heart beginning to thud against the inside of his chest.
> 
> “Do you remember people coming and finding you, in your apartment?”
> 
> He didn’t remember, not anything. Except sea monsters, and being sucked down into a whirlpool, down into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: childhood trauma; hospitals; loss of a parent; bullying.

* * *

_I've been treated so wrong  
I've been treated so long  
As if I'm becoming untouchable_

_I need a lullaby  
A kiss goodnight  
Angel-sweet love of my life  
Oh, I need this_

_\- Natalie Merchant_

* * *

When Sanji woke up the next time all the way, he was in a bed. Not his bed. And there was a plastic bag with a tube going to a needle, _a needle,_ in the back of his hand.

Sanji shivered and let out a funny little sound, a strange squeak, while his other hand moved to grab the needle, to pull it out – and straight away a woman appeared leaning over the bed, catching hold of his hand. “No, no, _chéri_ – leave it. It’s there to help you.”

Looking at her was hard because his eyes were all blurry, but Sanji blinked and saw her clean pale blue clothes, her serious face. Which softened into a gentle smile. “You were always trying to pull it out at first. You kept us all on our toes, the first couple of days you were here.”

Sanji stared at her. Confused by her smile, and the needle in his hand, and the bed which wasn’t his own. He tried to say something, but all that came out was another strange half-squeak.

The woman reached away to one side, then brought something into his field of view. A plastic cup with a spout, like babies used. “Have a little sip of water, Sanji. You’re still dehydrated, you need to drink.”

She put an arm round Sanji’s shoulders and helped him sit up a little. The plastic spout felt strange in his mouth: the water cool and soothing on his tongue. After only a couple of swallows, the woman took the cup away. “Good boy. That’s enough for now.”

This time when Sanji tried to talk, he was able to get out a few whispery words. “Where... am I?”

“In hospital, _chéri_. You were brought here four days ago, very poorly. But you’re getting better now, you’re going to be fine.” The woman gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m Nurse Gabrielle.”

Sanji looked around, at what he could see of the white-walled room. At the open door, from which sounds of footsteps and people came. “Why am I in hospital?”

Nurse Gabrielle got a strange look on her face, then tried to smile again. “So you can get better, Sanji.”

“When can I go home?”

The nurse regarded him; smoothed the bedcovers with one hand and set down the cup of water on a small table beside the bed, before giving him another unconvincing smile. “I’m just going to tell the doctor you’re awake. She’ll talk with you.” And after a final pat on the bedcovers she left, closing the room door behind her.

Sanji’s gaze travelled from the doorway, to the needle taped into the back of his left hand, between his finger and thumb. It made him flinch, and he quickly looked away. He’d always hated needles. His heart was beginning to thump and he felt a bit sick.

There wasn’t much in the room to look at, besides his bed and the table. There was a window in the wall next to his bed, with a blind drawn across it: the slats were half open, letting in some daylight.

His head felt funny, sort of floaty and swimmy. When he tried to sit up on his own, nothing worked right: his arms and legs felt like they didn’t belong to him any more. Sanji managed to flop over in bed onto his side, from where he gazed at the room’s door.

It wasn’t too long before Nurse Gabrielle returned, along with another woman in a white coat and with a stethoscope round her neck. She gave Sanji a smile – a proper one – and stood by the edge of his bed. “Hello there, Sanji. It’s good to see you awake. I’m Dr Soulier, I’ve been looking after you since you got here.”

Sanji wasn’t sure what to say. Dr Soulier had long brown hair and a kind, tired face. She picked up her stethoscope. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes... It’s for listening to people’s chests.” Somehow Sanji was able to pull that knowledge out of the floaty cotton wool inside his head, he didn’t know how.

“Very good. I’m just going to listen to your chest now, okay?” Dr Soulier smiled at him again. “It might feel a bit cold, sorry.”

The stethoscope didn’t actually feel very cold. And Sanji was distracted by the sight of his own body, once the nurse had helped him sit up and lifted up the strange green back-to-front shirt thing he was wearing. All his bones were sticking out.

Dr Soulier gave a little nod, and put her stethoscope away. “Good. You’re doing very well.” She looked at Nurse Gabrielle. “Let’s continue with the IV fluids for another day, but start giving ReSoMal orally. If that goes well today, we’ll begin re-feeding tomorrow with Formula 75.”

“Yes, doctor.” The nurse made a note in a folder she was carrying.

The kind-eyed doctor turned her gaze to Sanji again. “Well... How do you feel now you’ve properly woken up, Sanji?”

“My head feels... kind of floaty.”

“I’m not surprised.” Dr Soulier raised her eyebrows sympathetically. “You were very poorly when you first arrived at the hospital. You were very dehydrated and malnourished: that means your body hadn’t had enough to eat or drink for a long time. But we’ve been giving you some special water with sugar and other useful stuff in it - ” she gestured towards the clear plastic bag hanging on the stand beside the bed, “ – and that’s helped you start to get better. Now we’ll give you some special drinks, just a little bit to drink but quite often, and those will help too. And maybe tomorrow we’ll give you something to eat. It won’t be very exciting, I’m afraid: like porridge. Do you like porridge?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” Dr Soulier pulled a face. “But don’t worry, it won’t be long before you can eat proper food again. What’s your favourite thing to eat?”

Sanji suddenly didn’t want to think about food. Instead he wanted his mother, and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t there. “When can I go home?”

Dr Soulier got a complicated expression on her face. “We’ll have to see how well you get on with eating. You’ll have to stay in hospital a few weeks...”

“Can _maman_ come visit me?” Sanji knew people were allowed to visit you in hospital, they’d talked about it at... school, that was it. His head was slowly starting to get less fuzzy.

The doctor and nurse exchanged looks. Then Dr Soulier took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You need to get stronger before we talk about that, okay?” She stood up and scribbled something on the folder the nurse was holding, then moved to the door. “I’ll be back again later. Get lots of rest and we’ll talk some more tomorrow, Sanji.” And with a parting smile, she was gone.

The ‘special drinks’ were pretty yuck, sweet but somehow salty as well. And when Nurse Gabrielle brought him a tiny cup of the porridge stuff the next day, it was so gloopy Sanji almost wished for _île flottante_ instead. Luckily he didn’t have to eat much of it at a time; but Gabrielle and the other nurses kept bringing a little cup of gloop every hour, so he got tired of the stuff pretty quickly.

He didn’t see Dr Soulier until nearly the evening, and by then Sanji was starting to remember things. Not all of it and not all at once: just little flashes of memory. Glimpses of things he couldn’t make sense of. Steam rising from a small heap of spaghetti on a plate. A brown envelope lying on a pillow. Sunlight stretching across a tiled floor.

He sometimes looked out the window – Nurse Gabrielle had drawn back the blind – but there wasn’t much to see. Another building opposite, which the Nurse Gabrielle told him was part of the same hospital. Clouds and sky, occasionally a bird.

More than anything, he wanted his mother. He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here, in hospital.

_Does maman know I’m here?_

That was a scary thought. And there was something even scarier behind that, something he couldn’t quite bring up out of the confused bits of memories. Something that made him feel shaky and unsafe.

When Dr Soulier finally reappeared, she bestowed a big warm smile on Sanji as she sat down on the chair beside his bed. “Here’s my star patient... You’ve done really well, Sanji: the nurses have told me you’ve eaten all of their terrible porridge.” She winked at him. “Keep it up and you’ll make me a very happy doctor. And...” She gestured towards the stand with its plastic bag of liquid. “...We can get rid of this old thing, you don’t need it any more.”

Sanji sat up a bit, looking at her. “I don’t?”

“Nope. You’re drinking for yourself now, clever boy, so this thing can go.” She nodded towards his left hand, the one with the needle in it. “So I’m going to take that out, okay?”

That made Sanji curl up protectively in the bed, a prickle of anxiety running through him. “Take out the needle?” His voice squeaked a bit.

“Yes.” Dr Soulier met his panicked gaze. “I’ll do it really quickly, you’ll hardly even feel it. I promise. And Nurse Gabrielle will help.”

“Will it hurt?” Sanji felt like a trapped rabbit, heart thudding, desperate to run away.

“No. Just a tiny pinch, like this.” The doctor demonstrated by pinching the back of her own hand, and pulling a funny face. “Nothing to it.” 

Their hands felt cool and firm as the nurse held his wrist, and the doctor pressed something soft against his skin. Sanji, keeping his eyes screwed shut, felt a small pinch and a tug in his hand; then he heard the doctor say, “There, all done.” When he opened his eyes Nurse Gabrielle was sticking a plaster on his hand and the doctor was smiling at him. “Good boy.”

Once the stand with the tube and bag had been taken away by the nurse, Doctor Soulier sat down beside his bed again. “Usually I give lollipops to my patients when they’ve been as brave as you, but you’re not allowed them yet. So don’t let me forget: I owe you one lollipop.”

Sanji was inspecting his needle-free hand, with the plaster on it. “Can I have a strawberry choupette?”

“Let me make a note.” Dr Soulier took out a small notepad from a pocket in her white coat, and solemnly wrote it down. “ ‘Don’t forget: one strawberry choupette for Sanji.’ ”

Sanji looked at the doctor, wriggling his head against the pillows to get more comfortable. “When can I eat sweets again?”

“Very soon.” The doctor nodded. “Especially if you keep on eating that terrible porridge when the nurses bring it to you.”

“It’s bleghh.” Sanji pulled a face.

“It really is,” Dr Soulier agreed. “But that’s how you can tell it’s good medicine: it tastes bleghh.”

“Can my _maman_ come and visit me soon?” Anxiety bubbled this question out of Sanji’s lips before he could stop himself.

The doctor went quiet for a moment, looking down at the floor and frowning a little. Then she let out a quiet sigh, before lifting her gaze to meet Sanji’s again. Steady and sorry-looking. She reached slowly out and took Sanji’s hand in her own, her cool dry fingers curling around his. “Sanji... I have to tell you something. I want you to listen very carefully. Okay?”

Sanji nodded. Feeling his heart beginning to thud against the inside of his chest.

“Do you remember people coming and finding you, in your apartment?”

He didn’t remember, not anything. Except sea monsters, and being sucked down into a whirlpool, down into the dark.

_\- My god, the kid must’ve been here all alone._

A man’s voice spoke out of the dark place. And Sanji remembered, he remembered being curled up in the dark, so cold and trying to keep warm.

“Sanji, what do you remember?” Dr Soulier spoke gently, stroking his hand.

“There... there was a man?” Sanji said, in a small voice.

“Yes. A paramedic. He was one of the people who helped you, when they came to your apartment. Do you remember that you were very sick, when they found you?”

Sanji shook his head, this time.

“Well, you were very poorly. You were suffering from severe malnutrition, Sanji.” Dr Soulier caught herself; gave a half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s doctor talk, for being half-starved. You hadn’t eaten anything, for a long time. You’d been alone, in your apartment, for nearly two months. Do you remember that?”

Sanji nodded uncertainly, although he didn’t want to. Wanted instead to push away the memories, make them go back into the dark place.

“Your school contacted the authorities; and when those people couldn’t get into your apartment they brought the police, to open the door; and they called the paramedics, and you were brought here. And we were able to help you, to start making you better. You were very sick when you first got here, Sanji, but now you’re doing better. You’ll be able to leave hospital in a few weeks.”

“And I can go home?”

The doctor paused. Then answered quietly, “No.”

Panic, hot and sharp, flared in the centre of Sanji’s chest. “But I want to go home. I want my _maman_.” He sounded like a baby. And even as he said it, a terrible dread fell over him.

_Why hasn’t she come?_

“Sanji: I’m very sorry, but you can’t go home. Your mother...” Dr Soulier took a breath, before continuing in a gentle, quiet voice. “I’m so sorry, to tell you this. Your mother is dead.”

Sanji stared at the doctor. Feeling her hand squeezing his. Seeing her kind, dark, worried eyes. “No she isn’t.”

Dr Soulier’s eyes tightened. “Sanji... I know it must be very hard for you to hear this. But your mother died. About eight weeks ago. I’m so very, very sorry.”

“ _Maman’s_ at work,” Sanji retorted, fighting the memories that were spilling out of the dark place now, fighting to push them back. “She works in a hotel in Narbonne, she’s a concierge, sometimes she has to stay late.” The sharp-edged thing in his chest felt like a creature was tearing its way out of him.

The doctor’s hand gave his another squeeze: she drew in a slow breath. “Your mother had... a bad accident, Sanji. And she died. I promise you, I’m telling you the truth. It’s a terrible, sad truth: but your mother’s gone.”

Sanji just stared at her. Feeling himself waver inside, unable to argue against Dr Soulier’s dark, sad-looking eyes. It was as if he swayed on the edge of a high cliff, teetering and buffeted by a cold wind.

He pulled his hand free and fell.

Nothing made sense any more. So Sanji stopped trying to act like it did. He shut his eyes and curled up in the hospital bed and tried to make everything go away.

When Nurse Gabrielle came with the gloopy porridge, Sanji stayed curled up, unseeing, not answering her when she talked to him.

“Come on now, _chéri:_ just eat a spoonful. You need to keep on eating to get better.”

_ No _ _._

Sanji didn’t say it out loud, but he meant it. _No_ to eating. _No_ to getting better. _No_ to being here, in hospital. This was a bad dream, if he could just curl up in the dark for long enough he could dream himself back home safe, waking up on the sofabed and smelling warm croissants and coffee and his mother’s cigarette smoke.

When he stayed unresponsive even to Nurse Gabrielle trying to get him to drink some water, Dr Soulier came and talked to him, in her gentle voice. “Sanji, I know this is very hard for you. But you must drink and eat, or we’ll have to give you more medicine, to make you well. Please try to drink and eat, just a little.”

Sanji moved just enough to put his hands over his ears. Now he could only hear muffled sounds, like sea surf. He kept his hands there and kept his eyes shut and willed himself to go down deeper into the darkness.

They wouldn’t let him stay there. Dr Soulier and Nurse Gabrielle came back with the needle and the tube and the bag of special water on its stand, and when Sanji pulled the needle out they held his arms still and put it in again. The doctor put something else into the needle and everything went fuzzy and far-away, until Sanji slipped down into the waiting dark.

When he woke up he still had the needle in his hand and he couldn’t move his arms because they had soft cuffs of cloth wrapped round them both, holding them to the edges of the bed. He couldn’t take the needle out and he couldn’t get to the dream place where he could wake up at home: couldn’t do anything except lie there and watch the clear liquid run from the bag a drop at a time into the tube that led to his hand.

_No No No_

The hospital room was quiet, he could hear sounds of people in the corridor beyond the door, but no-one came in to see him except nurses and Dr Soulier and other doctors in white coats who examined him with frowns on their faces and then talked together in voices too low for Sanji to hear.

After a week an Arabic-looking doctor with dark curly hair and a moustache came in and sat by Sanji’s bed. He wore a white coat that was open to show a purple shirt, and carried a notebook that he placed on the bed next to Sanji’s cuffed right arm. Finally he looked at Sanji, and gave him a small, apologetic smile. “Bof... These things are a pain, eh?” And he tapped his pen gently on the soft cloth cuff.

Sanji met the doctor’s black eyes, and said nothing.

Letting out a sigh, the doctor nodded. “Sorry... I should’ve started with introductions, no? I’m Dr Hamidou: and you’re Sanji. I’ve been hearing a lot about you, my friend.” He blew out his cheeks. “Dr Soulier’s very worried about you. So she asked me to come and sit with you for a while. Maybe talk together, if you feel like it. That’s what I’m good at: listening to people talk. So if you want to ask any questions, or tell me anything, Sanji: that’s what I’m here for.”

Slowly and deliberately, Sanji turned his head sideways on the pillow so that he was looking the other way. So he couldn’t see Dr Hamidou any more. He heard the doctor sigh.

“Well, that’s one way of saying something without even opening your mouth.” There was a scrape as if the chair had been moved; then Dr Hamidou appeared in his field of view again, putting down the chair on the other side of the bed and sitting down again. “Okay. Here I am again, being a pest. That’s also something I’m good at, you can ask all the nurses here.”

Sanji shut his eyes.

After a long pause, the doctor’s voice came again. “If you want to lie there with your eyes shut, that’s okay, Sanji. You don’t have to do anything. In fact, you know what? You can lie here in bed not talking, not doing anything, it’s your choice. But if you do that, nothing will change. The doctors and nurses will have to keep on giving you food through that silly tube, and they’ll have to keep your arms stuck down like this because you keep trying to pull the silly tube out. And I bet it’s awful for you being stuck here. It’s certainly awful for Nurse Gabrielle and Dr Soulier, they feel pretty bad about having to do this.” Dr Hamidou paused, as if waiting for Sanji to say something: when nothing happened, he began talking again. “So I thought I’d come and see if there was some way we could figure out together a better thing to do. Because we all want you to get well, Sanji.”

_No No No_

In the dark behind his eyelids Sanji felt his stomach give a little lurch.

“And you know what? Sometimes I feel like shutting my eyes and making the world go away, too. Everyone does, sometimes. But it doesn’t work. When we open our eyes the world’s still there.” Dr Hamidou said this gently. “At some point, we have to face the world. But you don’t have to face it alone, _habibi_. There are lots of people who want to help you. Me included. That’s _another_ thing I’m good at, helping people. I’m a special kind of doctor: I’m a child psychiatrist. You know what that is?”

Sanji couldn’t help a tiny frown happening.

“When people feel sad, I help them to figure out how to deal with that. It’s pretty tricky, sometimes... Because when we feel really sad, it can feel like that’s all there is in the whole world: just feeling sad, forever and ever.”

There was a space of quiet then, that stretched for a long time. After a while Sanji wondered if the doctor had got up and gone away, so he opened his eyes. Dr Hamidou was still sitting by the bed, his hands folded in his lap, watching Sanji. Seeing his patient’s eyes open, the doctor gave him another small, apologetic smile. “Still here. I’ve got lots of time today, so I thought I’d stay here with you till you feel like talking.”

For some reason, he didn’t know why, Sanji didn’t shut his eyes again, or turn his head away. Dr Hamidou’s face was kind and when he smiled lots of little lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

After another pause, Dr Hamidou tapped one finger on his lips, as if thinking; then he gave Sanji a serious look and leaned closer to the bed. “Okay. Let’s make a deal. I’ll undo these - ” he pointed at the cloth cuffs on Sanji’s arms, “ – if you promise not to do anything crazy like pulling your IV needle out of your hand. Deal?”

Sanji considered this: then gave a small nod. Dr Hamidou gave a nod too, and a proper smile. “Cool. Here we go, then.” And he reached across and carefully unfastened the cloth cuffs, freeing his patient’s arms. “Remember though: no crazy stuff, or I’ll get into big trouble with Nurse Gabrielle.”

It felt so weird being able to move his arms again that Sanji didn’t know what to do with them. Tentatively he wrapped them around his chest, hugging himself. Dr Hamidou watched him, then spoke again. “Dr Soulier told me that until a few days ago you were doing well, Sanji; that you were starting to get better. Until she told you something that upset you very badly... Something about your mother. Do you remember that?”

The sick, twisty feeling in Sanji’s stomach got worse.

_No No No_

Dr Hamidou gazed at him. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling, Sanji: right now?”

The words came out before Sanji knew he was saying them. “I want my _maman_.” And as well as the twisting in his stomach suddenly his chest was hurting, his eyes were prickling, his throat felt like someone had gripped it and was squeezing slowly.

“I know.” The doctor’s voice was quiet and gentle.

“I want to go home.” This time his voice came out as a whimper.

“Sanji: do you remember what Dr Soulier told you, about your mother?”

_\- I’m so sorry, to tell you this. Your mother is dead._

Sanji couldn’t keep the memories back any more: something inside him tore like wet paper and they all came spilling out. Day after endless day waiting in the apartment, for his mother to come home. Eating all the food that was left in the kitchen until there was nothing to eat. Hiding in the bathroom when the woman came and knocked on the door. Getting so hungry and tired that all he could do was lie curled up in his bed, the world getting further and further away. But still waiting, hoping, wishing for his mother to return.

And now she never would.

It was as if all the liquid that had been falling into Sanji through that long thin plastic tube burst free. He began to cry and then he couldn’t stop, not even when Dr Hamidou gently put his arms round him and held him in a hug, one hand softly stroking the back of Sanji’s head. He cried until he was exhausted and his head began to spin: then he went to sleep.

When he woke up Dr Hamidou had gone but Nurse Gabrielle was there, with a cup of sugar-salt-water. Sanji didn’t want it but he drank it anyway, so they would take out the needle from his hand.

That was how he spent the rest of the time he had to stay in the hospital, two whole months. Doing what Dr Soulier or Nurse Gabrielle wanted him to do, because maybe it would mean he’d get better and get out of hospital quicker. Away from needles and cuffs and a bed that wasn’t his and strangers coming into the room and asking him questions, writing things down.

Estelle Bouchard, the child protection officer who’d come knocking on their apartment door, became a regular visitor with her bobbed blonde hair and leather briefcase full of paperwork. She often frowned as she wrote down Sanji’s answers to her questions, and hardly ever answered any questions he asked her.

She was the one who told him, a week before he was due to leave the hospital, that he was going to live in a group care home for a little while, with lots of other kids. Sanji received this news blank-faced: he’d learned that showing any kind of emotion to Estelle just gave her ammunition for more questions. And he was sick of being asked questions, especially as no-one would answer his. Dr Hamidou had been a good listener, but now Sanji was better he didn’t see the kind-faced psychiatrist any more.

The last day of his stay in hospital came: Dr Soulier and Nurse Gabrielle both gave him hugs goodbye – and Dr Soulier gave him a bag of strawberry choupette lollipops to take with him.

In her car, Estelle gave the bag of lollipops a sidelong look. “ _Tch_ , all that sugar... So bad for your teeth. You’d think a doctor would know better.”

Sanji pushed the choupettes carefully into the bottom of his coat pocket. “They’re mine.” He said this flatly and firmly, in a tone that warned Estelle against gainsaying it.

Letting out a short huff, Estelle shook her head and started the car. “Just don’t eat them all at once. We don’t want you being sick in the car.”

It took nearly two hours to drive to the group home, in Montpellier. When they got there Estelle parked the car and guided Sanji in through the entrance with a hand on his shoulder that was maybe meant to be encouraging but felt more like she was making sure he didn’t try to run away.

“So this is Sanji, eh?” A tall man with a beard shook hands with Estelle , then smiled at Sanji. “Welcome. I’m Yves. We’ll get you settled into your room, then you can meet the other kids.”

Unpacking didn’t take long because Sanji didn’t have much apart from a change of clothes and some bathroom stuff. Yves led him then down a hallway, talking as they went. “It’ll probably all feel a bit strange for you to start with, but just remember all the kids here have felt the same thing. You’ll be fine.”

They turned the corner and went in through a big double doorway to what revealed itself to be a dining room: several tables with other kids eating lunch, who looked up when Sanji and Yves came in. The tall man raised his voice, overpowering the chatter. “Okay, guys! Say hi to Sanji, he’s just arrived. Make him welcome.”

There was a vague murmur of _Hi, Sanji_ that reverberated around the room. Yves nodded at a boy sitting at a table near them. “Luc, can you help Sanji get some lunch?”

Lunch went okay. It wasn’t until free time early that evening, when they were allowed to play outdoors for an hour before supper, that things got difficult.

“What’s up with you? You’re really skinny.” A chunky boy with a crewcut looked Sanji up and down.

“Nothing.” Sanji gave him a flat stare.

“Look, I can put my hand right round his arm!” Chunky boy did so, until Sanji shook his arm free.

“Get off!”

“Or you’ll do what, wimp?” Chunky boy folded his arms across his chest.

Sanji simply glowered at him. Feeling the hot, heavy, miserable feeling that had been growing inside him since Estelle drove him away from the hospital burn a little fiercer.

“Freak,” pronounced his adversary.

Not knowing what else to do, Sanji stuck out his tongue. “Fatso.”

The other boy punched him in the stomach.

By the end of his first month in care, Sanji had learned several things. Number one being, the only one who’d look out for him, was himself. Adults did set the rules and police them (the fat boy who’d punched him got sent to the office to get talked at by Yves), but the kids largely ignored them. If you wanted to get through each day, you either had to be good at fighting or good at staying unnoticed. Preferably both.

The second thing he learned was that while breaking the rules got you into trouble with the adult staff (bad), following the rules meant the other kids thought you were a wimp (worse).

The third thing he learned was never, under any circumstances, let anyone – adults or other kids - see you cry. The other kids would make fun of you, and the adults would ply you with questions: it was hard to tell which was worse.

The final thing he learned was that his mother hadn’t worked in a hotel after all.

He’d been sent to the home’s office to see Estelle, who it turned out would be visiting every week to check up on him. Only when he got there Estelle was already there talking with Yves, the door to the office slightly ajar. Sanji heard his own name and stopped dead outside the doorway, holding his breath and listening hard.

“...Child like him shouldn’t be too hard to find foster placement for. Sanji seems a nice enough kid.” Yves, sounding cheerful.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the circumstances that led him to being taken into care.” Estelle spoke in sober tones.

“Mm, yeah... Tough break, what happened.”

“It’s not clear yet how damaged he is by what he’s experienced. Not just the trauma of being abandoned, or the physical effects of starvation. There’s also the mother’s lifestyle to be considered.”

“You’re not thinking there might have been sexual abuse?”

“The doctors said there was no evidence of anything like that. And he doesn’t show signs: no precocious behaviour or use of inappropriate language. But who knows how having a prostitute for a mother has affected him. Not to mention, the severe neglect. I’ve seen it so many times: these women leave their kids alone for hours, sometimes days at a time. It’s shocking.”

_Prostitute?_

The word echoed around inside Sanji’s head. He knew what it meant, but how could they be talking that way about his mother? It made his chest feel hot and tight.

“It’s ironic.” Estelle was speaking again. “Of course, it was horrible what happened to her: and Sanji’s suffered through an awful situation, poor kid. But even before all this, he was already a child at risk. We just didn’t know about his situation, then. If his mother had survived, he would’ve been taken into the care system anyway, for his own safety.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.” Yves must have moved within the office beyond: a chair scraped on the floor. “Speaking of which... I asked Claudette to send him here. I’ll just go see what’s keeping him.”

Footsteps began to move towards the door and Sanji moved too, turning away and then running as silently as he could manage down the hallway, ducking around a corner. All the words Estelle had said tumbling around inside him, not making sense. But hurting anyway.

One of the worst things about living in the group home was where it was: right in the middle of a built-up suburb of the city. There was only an asphalt yard with a few trees and benches, and a small garden. The sea was six miles away, but outings to the beach didn’t happen often: the care home staff usually let the kids choose where to go on their weekend outings, and most of the kids thought the beach was boring and preferred to go to the cinema or water park or zoo.

Sanji missed the sea so much it felt like a physical ache. He dreamed some nights that he was walking on the beach, feet sinking into the sand, cool waves splashing. Sometimes his mother was there with him, jumping the waves and laughing.

_\- Here comes a big one, chéri!_

Then he would wake up and instead of blue sea and bright sand and open sky there was the blank white ceiling of the room he slept in. Instead of the _shussh-shusshh_ of waves there was the buzz of distant morning city traffic. He’d squeeze his eyes shut and curl up with his hands over his ears, trying his hardest to fall asleep again, to escape back into the dream. It never worked.

Four months after he’d arrived and a month before Christmas, Estelle announced during one of her weekly visits that Sanji would soon be moving on, to foster parents in Marseille.

“They’re very much looking forward to welcoming you into their family, Sanji.” Estelle gave him an encouraging smile. “They’ve fostered two older boys, so you’ll have someone to play with.”

Sanji nodded, inwardly reserving judgement about his future foster brothers until he’d actually met them. But part of his heart was leaping up, at the prospect of escaping the drab care home... And moreover, to go and live in Marseille. _By the sea_.

The Forestiers were a middle-aged couple who’d been fostering children in their Marseille home for over a decade. Claude Forestier worked in the local town hall, and his wife Isabel taught part-time in a primary school. Their ideas about bringing up children included healthy eating, going to church every Sunday, rewards being earned by helping with chores, and a belief that firm boundaries made children feel safe.

One of the family boundaries was _No fighting_ , which Sanji managed to transgress on a regular basis.

Both his foster brothers were older than him: Théo ten years old and Remi thirteen. Like him they’d lived in care homes before being fostered; but Remi had been in care since he was little, while Théo had lived with the Forestiers for three years.

Sanji found Théo easier to live with than Remi. Théo mostly immersed himself in playing computer games after he’d finished his school homework, plugging in and focussing on his own world of digital adventures. But Sanji’s older foster brother Remi was an unpredictable teenager, liable to mood swings and fits of bad temper, which he mostly relieved by targeting Théo or Sanji.

“Hey, shortstuff. Get out of my chair, I wanna watch TV.” Remi materialised in the sitting room one Saturday morning, while Sanji was watching cartoons. The older boy came to stand next to the armchair Sanji was sat in, waving one hand dismissively. “C’mon. Move.”

Sanji looked up at his foster brother, warily. “I got here first.”

“As if.” Remi reached out and grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, hauling him forwards off the chair and taking a seat there himself. “I was living here way before you, moron.”

Finding himself unceremoniously dumped on the floor, Sanji let out a yelp. “Craphead!” He landed a thump on Remi’s shin with his fist, which only earned him a swift kick in the arm from the older boy. “ _Ow!”_

“Shut up. You want to get us both in the shit?” Remi flashed him a warning look.

Sanji stood up and glowered at him. “You started it.”

“Yeah. And I’ll finish it, if you don’t shut your trap and get out the way so I can watch TV.”

Feeling fury swelling up inside him, Sanji planted his feet firmly and folded his arms across his chest, fixing Remi with a scowl. 

“Bah, you shitty little bastard - ” His foster brother leaned forward and shoved him sideways. The two of them began grappling, which quickly reached its usual outcome: Sanji pinned on the floor with Remi sitting on top of him, the older boy gripping his arms and pushing him against the tiles. Sanji tried to wriggle free and couldn’t; tried kicking the other boy and couldn’t reach him. “...You’re a pain in the ass!”

“I told you to shut your face.” Remi twisted one of his arms: Sanji grit his teeth.

“Get off!”

“Not till you say, ‘I’m a total loser.’ ” Remi grinned.

“Rrghh...” Sanji strained against the other boy’s grip. “... _Asshole_.”

It was new swearword he hadn’t dared try out before, and he followed it up by spitting at the other boy’s face for good measure. He felt Remi recoil, before the older boy bent lower and brought his face an inch from Sanji’s to snarl a response. “Son of a _whore_.”

Sanji went rigid underneath him.

_\- Fils de pute!_

There was no way to keep secrets, not when you lived in care. Kids in care learned to listen in on adults having conversations, in case they overheard something useful. Which meant your business became everyone else’s, and it meant that within a couple of weeks of living with the Forestiers Sanji knew that Théo’s parents had died in a car accident; and Remi’s dad had sold drugs around the dockside streets of Marseille.

It also meant that Remi knew what Sanji’s mother had been. And he liked reminding Sanji, in graphic language, exactly what being a prostitute meant.

“Your maman sucked dick for a living.” Remi now hissed this into Sanji’s ear, knees digging into his sides. “So you can kiss my ass, while you’re down there.”

Everything dissolved into a blur of fury, Remi’s words lost in a swirling roar in Sanji’s head that burst out of him as a screaming yell. He bucked and fought against the weight of the older boy on top of him, struggling free: and flew at his foster brother like an avenging wildcat, all teeth and claws, fists and feet.

The fight didn’t last long: the Forestiers broke it up, resorting finally to Isabel plucking a flailing and still-screaming Sanji out of the midst of it and carrying him bodily out of the room, while her husband dealt with Remi.

Isabel took Sanji to his bedroom and placed him on the bed, before stepping back. “That’s enough, now. Quiet down.”

Sanji clawed himself upright into sitting, and blinked at her. Isabel pulled a nearby chair up to the bed and sat down. “Here, wipe your face.” She offered him a handkerchief.

Taking the soft cloth, Sanji sniffed and scrubbed at his face with it. He didn’t remember crying.

“That was quite a scene. Why were you boys fighting?” Isabel asked this with a frown.

“...Remi started it.”

“I didn’t ask who started it. What were you fighting about?”

Sanji sniffed again, and looked doubtfully at his foster mother. Isabel sighed. “Sanji: you need to tell me the truth. We can’t sort this out if you don’t talk.”

“He said my mother was – was - ” Sanji felt his face heating up, his voice starting to crumble.

“Take a slow breath,” Isabel advised him. “And blow your nose.”

Doing so, Sanji managed to finally get his answer out. “He called me a son of a ...whore.”

Isabel’s expression froze somewhat. “I see.” After a careful pause, she added, “That was wrong of Remi. And we don’t use words like that in this family.” When Sanji made no response to this, Isabel shook her head. “Claude will talk with Remi, and Remi will apologise to you. But in this house we don’t fight and hit each other, either. You know fighting’s wrong: we’ve talked about this before.”

“He started it!” Sanji protested.

“It doesn’t help to hit Remi back, however much he may have provoked you.”

“He called my maman a - ”

“We’re not using that word again,” Isabel interrupted him, firmly.

“I hate him!”

“Sanji.” Isabel looked him in the eyes, her face disapproving. “That’s enough. What Remi said was bad, but saying that about him isn’t any better.”

And that was the end of it. Except it wasn’t, because Remi knew that whispering _fils de pute_ was a sure-fire way to score an easy hit, and Sanji could never stop himself from fighting back.

The Forestiers asked the priest at church to talk to him, which meant Sanji got a long rambling lecture from _Père_ Gérard about turning the other cheek, and the meek inheriting the earth. But when Sanji told the priest what Remi had called his mother, instead of understanding _Père_ Gérard had looked uncomfortable and after clearing his throat loudly had talked even more, about sin and how important it was not to give in to it.

No-one cared. And no-one ever talked to him about his mother: like she was something shameful, not to be mentioned. Remi kept on saying shitty things and Sanji kept on fighting back, which meant being sent to his room and having to stay there instead of going outside to play or being allowed to watch TV or anything nice.

School sucked too. Being a foster kid made him a target for starters: and when the other kids somehow found out about his mother it was the same as with Remi, except at school the kids Sanji fought were about his own size. Sometimes he ached for Farid, and for Coralie. No-one at his new school wanted to be his friend.

About six months after he’d started school his class went on a school trip to see the Marseille docks, as part of what they were learning about the world and where foods came from. A man in a yellow hardhat and hi-vis jacket showed them around, pointing out the huge container ships and telling them all the places in the world they were travelling to and from. As the man told them the names of the destinations, Sanji began to get an idea.

_Africa. India. The South Pacific... Ships sailing out into the blue sea._

He could sneak onto one of these huge ships, by hiding away in one of those big container things. Find himself a little corner below decks to keep hidden, until the ship was well under way in the middle of the ocean, too far for turning around and bringing him back. And then he’d come out and tell the sailors he had no family or anyone who’d miss him, and he’d work on the ship to earn his keep – maybe he could help in the kitchen, cooking and washing up, he could do those things – and they would let him join the crew. He’d be like Plume the Pirate, sailing the blue sea.

Sanji didn’t know how long it would take to get to one of the far-away destinations the dock worker had talked about, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was getting away from the Forestiers, from Remi, from school... Out to sea, where the blue water and the blue sky met and the sun shone and no-one talked about sin or his mother or any of it, he could just sail away and forget everything, leave it all behind. No-one would care if he went, anyway.

To run away you needed to take money with you: Sanji had learned that much from the other kids in the care home. Claude Forestier sometimes left his wallet in his jacket, when he hung it in the hallway. It was just a matter of Sanji checking the pockets regularly, until he got lucky.

One Saturday, he did.

It was just before dawn so it was easy to slip away, before anyone else woke up. Claude’s wallet got shoved into Sanji’s jeans pocket; he grabbed his school backpack and put in some apples, a bottle of water and some biscuits; then he crept out the front door, softly pulling it to behind him. 

He ran most of the way down to the docks, where it wasn’t too difficult to slip in through a gate when the security guard on duty was distracted by talking on his radio. Soon Sanji was wandering around between cargo containers, gazing up at the stacked metal boxes. Trying to figure out how to unlock one and get inside, so he could stow away.

_I’m getting out of here._

The salt sea smell and the sound of gulls called to him in the early morning sunlight. There was nothing here to leave behind. Everything that had mattered had left him already.

_\- The sea... Cradled them all, along her bright bays...  
And with a love song, the sea... calmed my heart, all my days._

His mother’s voice sang in his head, drowning out the dockyard noises. Drowning out any warning that might have been shouted at him. So the first thing he felt was something heavy slamming into him and sending him flying, tumbling over the gritty tarmac.

When Sanji next knew what was happening he was being pulled up off the ground, big hands holding him tightly, a man’s voice saying loud angry words that Sanji couldn’t understand because his head was spinning. Except he understood one thing: he was in trouble.

His heart sank even as he began to kick and struggle, fighting to get free. Because he didn’t want to be taken back to the Forestiers. If fighting his foster brothers was bad, stealing Claude’s wallet and running away from home was going to get him into so much trouble... And Sanji felt his stomach twist into a knot, panic narrowing down the world until he almost couldn’t breathe.

Then the man who was holding him shouted, “Jesus Christ, you crazy little brat! This isn’t a fucking playground! Holy shit, what a mess. Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

And Sanji stopped struggling, because the man’s voice was very loud and right in his face, and he didn’t want to be shaken any more in the man’s grip.

The man let out an angry noise, but set him down so that Sanji could get his feet on the ground. And suddenly he saw just beyond them a small crowd of men in work clothes and hi-vis waistcoats, clustering round a big blue cargo container. And lying against the edge of the container a big man who was groaning, people bending over him. It felt funny to look at him and then Sanji blinked and saw why, only one of the man’s legs was there, the other ended at the container’s edge –

“Goddamnit.” The man gripping his shoulders swore, his fingers tightening. And Sanji felt his panic swell, fear fill him as all he could do was stand and stare and tremble. Not understanding what had happened, but feeling a looming sense of disaster spreading over his world.

_I didn’t mean to do it._

Not even knowing what he’d done, but knowing it was somehow all his fault. Because in this world nothing made sense but everything, _everything_ kept going wrong. His mother had gone and he had to live with strangers and none of the rules made sense so he kept breaking them and getting into trouble. And even running away hadn’t worked, he was in so much trouble now, the Forestiers would send him back to the care home because he had done this terrible thing.

_What did I do? Why is this happening?_

Sanji began to cry. Which didn’t solve anything; but really, he couldn’t help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've finished torturing all of my lovely readers with Sanji's harrowing past. You can come out from behind the couch now.
> 
> These chapters were pretty hard to write. If reading them has brought anything up for anyone, please get some support and give yourself some self care. <3 <3 <3


	13. Love Gone Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nami looked confused. “I thought you said, you’d talked to Zoro about how things were when you were a kid.”
> 
> “I talked to him about being fostered, and how Zeff adopted me.” Sanji opened his eyes again, and returned her gaze. “I never told him about what happened before that.”
> 
> His friend bit her bottom lip. After a moment, she asked simply, “Why?”
> 
> “I was going to. When an opportunity presented itself.” Sanji found he’d wrapped his arms around his chest. “But it’s not the kind of thing you just come out with. It’s heavy shit to lay on someone.”
> 
> “I think Zoro is not the fragile flower you evidently take him for.” Nami’s tone was heavily ironic.

* * *

_And I've lost who I am, and I can't understand.  
Why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love  
Without, love gone wrong, lifeless words carry on.   
But I know, all I know, is that the end's beginning._

_\- Trading Yesterday  
  
_

* * *

_[Eighteen years later. Back in the here and now.]_

Sanji lit his twentieth cigarette of the day, inhaling into lungs that already felt baked with smoke.

_What did I do wrong? Why is this shit happening?_

In front of him on his desk his laptop displayed his accounts. Paperwork covered the rest of the desk’s surface, scribbled-on sheets of paper which comprised two weeks’ worth of his attempts to bend the laws of mathematics. As if by writing down the numbers one more time he could work some magic spell, shift the universe into some alternate reality where he wasn’t totally fucked.

He picked up his coffee mug and took a swig: grimaced at the lukewarm mouthful.

_Ugh._

Setting the mug down, he gazed at his desk. Feeling like he wanted to set the whole thing on fire.

_Yeah, that’ll work. Burn down Bite Me and claim on the insurance._

A bitter smile twisted his mouth. He took another hit on his cigarette.

_Jesus. What the fuck’s wrong with you, dipshit? Heading for bankruptcy isn’t bad enough, you want to add arson onto the list of fuck-ups as well?_

A shrill noise beside him made him jump, almost dropping his cigarette: his phone signalling an incoming call. Letting out a breath, Sanji picked it up. Nami’s name displayed on the screen.

_Shit._

He didn’t feel much like holding up his end of a conversation with his friend. But he’d been dodging talking with Nami for days, relying on short texts and smiley emojis along with apologies of heavy workload explaining his lack of contact.

The phone shrilled at him. Sanji tried – and failed - to remember when he and his best friend had last had an actual conversation.

Picking up the phone from his desk, he forced a smile onto his face and answered the call with a voice that he hoped didn’t sound too fake-cheery. “Hi, _chérie_. Good to hear from you.”

“ _Finally_.” Nami’s voice snapped back at him. “Have you joined a monastery for Trappist monks or something?”

“Eh?” Sanji’s tired brain couldn’t marshal anything more cogent in response.

“I thought maybe you’d taken some kind of vow of silence? Although you’ve been talking to Usopp, so I’m assuming it’s just me you’re PO’d with. Unless it _is_ the monk thing and you’re shunning the company of women, in which case I am coming over there right now to slap you silly.”

Feeling a flush of guilt, Sanji grimaced. “Sorry, my sweet. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, I’m mad.” Nami corrected him swiftly. “And I’m waiting for a good explanation why you’ve been all avoidy for the last two weeks.”

“I didn’t mean to be... Work’s just been crazy, I’ve been pulling a lot of late nights to keep on top of things.”

“Bullshit.” Nami’s response was instant. “You’ve been working your tail off for two months, I know that. But every time I’ve called you lately you’ve just texted me back. I haven’t talked with you face-to-face since my birthday night out.”

A fresh wave of guilt settled heavily over the chef’s shoulders. “Well, I totally messed up that night for you.”

“Oh please. Like you had any control over getting a migraine.” Nami sounded irritated. “Forget about that. What’s up? Why haven’t you been talking to me?”

Sanji stared at his desk, fingers clenching on his phone. Unable to think of a single convincing response. And suddenly feeling just too damn tired to keep pretending any more.

“Hey.” Nami’s voice prodded at him, with even more of a sharp edge. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on I will go stalker on you and follow you around till you talk to me.”

“...Sorry.” Even getting that one word out past the tightness in his throat took almost more effort than the chef could muster.

“Shit, Sanji. Stop apologising and just talk to me.” Now Nami sounded upset. “Are you okay? You sound weird.”

“I’m okay.” The words felt hollow as they left his lips. “It’s just... I’ve got a lot to deal with right now.”

“Like what?” His friend’s tone grew even more concerned.

Shutting his eyes, Sanji breathed in to the tight knot in his chest, trying not to let it grow. “You don’t want to hear about my problems, Nami.”

“Well, I sure as shit didn’t call you to talk about the weather.” She sounded angry again. “Look, dumbass: you’re my friend. Friends talk about stuff. So talk to me.”

Her words ripped off the veneer Sanji had so determinedly built up. Not knowing what to say or if he could even speak without his voice breaking up, he stayed silent. Keeping his eyes shut; breathing in and out; willing the growing tightness in his chest to subside. Feeling his muscles tensing, his body curling in on itself. Fingers clenching tight.

“Goddamnit.... Okay, hell with this. I’m coming over.” Nami announced this in no-nonsense tones.

Sanji’s eyes snapped open. Through the mounting anxiety he managed to say, “Th-there’s no need, my sweet - ”

“Yeah, there is.” Her voice got a grim edge of humour. “I can’t kick your ass from here.” She paused for a moment, then added in slightly less combative tones, “I’ve just ordered a cab. Be there in thirty minutes.” 

After Nami hung up Sanji sat immobilised at his desk, head full of tangling thoughts: until one lit up his brain.

_What the hell am I going to give her to eat?_

It was early Saturday evening, barely six o’clock. Nami was trekking across town to see him because he’d been such a craphead on the phone: the least he could do was make sure he gave her a decent supper.

Retreating to his kitchen, the chef opened his fridge and regarded its contents with something like dismay.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

He’d made a bunch of things for _Bite Me_ that day, but hadn’t cooked an actual meal. In fact, he hadn’t cooked a meal for himself since... Fuck, he couldn’t remember. Eating something, anything, felt like one more unmanageable task. Fixing sandwiches and coffee was the most he could wrap his head around, and even then he often abandoned his sandwich after a few bites.

_Okay, get a grip._

He was a chef. He knew how to sling a meal together from whatever he had to hand. Opening his cupboards, he came up with spaghetti, tinned tomatoes, a jar of capers, another of olives, a small tin of anchovies.

By the time Nami’s cab was due to arrive, Sanji had speed-cooked a pan of pasta puttanesca and salvaged a slightly stale baguette by transforming it into garlic bread. Normally he would have made a green salad to accompany the pasta, but that wasn’t going to happen because the only fresh produce that remained in his fridge was half a lemon and a wizened carrot.

He had just put a pan of water on to boil to cook the spaghetti, when his apartment buzzer signalled Nami’s arrival.

Her first action when he opened the door was to scowl at him. “I have just been driven here by the surliest Uber driver in the entire northern hemisphere. And if you say sorry, I’m gonna smack you.” Then she stepped inside and wrapped him in a hug.

Sanji hugged her back. Feeling his eyes sting and his throat close up. “It’s really good to see you, chérie.”

“Likewise.” Nami gave him one more ferocious squeeze, then released him. Sniffing the air, she raised an eyebrow. “Did you cook?”

“Of course.” Sanji managed a smile. “Pasta puttanesca, for the _bellissima signora_.”

Nami sighed. “I didn’t come over here to have you feed me. But thanks.”

Ten minutes later they were both sitting on the couch, with plates of pasta. Discovering he had no wine in his apartment, Sanji had poured them both tall glasses of iced water with slices of lemon in. He ate a couple of forkfuls of his food, but his stomach felt like lead. Setting his plate aside, he picked up his glass of water and took a sip.

Nami eyed his abandoned plate. “Something wrong with dinner you don’t want to tell me about?”

Giving her a quick smile, the chef shook his head. “Just not hungry.”

“Hm.” Nami frowned at her own plate.

“Is it all right? I kind of threw it together.” Sanji felt a pang then, that maybe he was spoiling his friend’s appetite too.

“It’s fine.” Nami stabbed her fork into her food.

After his friend had finished her plateful, Sanji picked up her empty plate and his unfinished one and carried them into the kitchen. Returning, he hovered in the doorway. “I didn’t have time to put together a dessert, but there’s ice cream in the freezer, or I could defrost some - ”

“For chrissake. Hell with dessert.” Nami folded her arms and scowled at him. “Come back here and sit down.”

Taking a deep breath, the chef did as he was told. Sitting beside his friend on the couch; picking up his glass of water and taking a sip; finishing the cigarette he’d been smoking and carefully crushing it out in an ashtray. Keeping his attention focussed on these small, ordinary tasks.

“Okay, talk.” Nami’s voice conveyed that her patience was running out. Her gaze sought his, her face serious. “What the hell’s happened? You look like shit.”

_Fuck it._

Sanji had no more energy left for dissembling. “I feel like shit.” He let out a sound that was meant to be a laugh, folding his arms tightly across his chest to hold in what was trying to burst out. “And my life has gone to shit, so yeah: generally that’s a theme right now.”

“Your life has not gone to shit.” Nami said this firmly. “You’re still here: still breathing in and breathing out. Which means...”

“...There’s more right with me than there is wrong with me. Yeah.” The chef shut his eyes. “... _Fuck_.”

Nami’s hand closed on his shoulder: gave him a small shake. “Hey. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Sanji did so. His friend was gazing at him, her eyes troubled: but when she saw him looking back, a small smile came onto her face. “See, you can do it. Now do the next thing. Tell me what you’re worrying about.”

A fist seemed to squeeze shut around Sanji’s stomach. “I think my business is gonna go under.”

“Why do you think that?” Her hand stayed on his shoulder, stroking it slightly. “Exactly?”

“Because there’s absolutely no way I can pay all the bills due in the next few weeks. Takings have been down for a while, and my lease company are stinging me for a pricey repair job. Not only can I not pay next month’s rent on _Bite Me_ , but I’m also going to have to default on my bank loan. So I’m screwed, big time.”

“Are you sure you’re that short of money? Have you checked your figures?”

“Only two or three hundred times.” Sanji let out a self-mocking laugh.

“How much are you short?”

“A lot more than I can deal with.”

“Would it help if I loaned you - ”

“No!” Sanji said this vehemently.

There was a short silence. Nami’s hand remained touching him, but it had stilled.

Sanji took an unsteady inward breath, then spoke again. Less loudly. “I’m sorry. I mean, thank you. I really, really appreciate you offering, _chérie_. But it’s not the kind of money I can ask friends to help me out with. Especially when I don’t have any fucking idea of when I’d be able to pay it back.”

“Maybe you should let your friends decide that.” Nami said this levelly.

“Nami, we’re not talking pocket change here. The amount I’ve got to find in the next two weeks is way more than you or anyone else could afford to lend me.”

“Well, I wasn’t supposing it’d just be me. There’s other people we could ask. And I’ll bet Zoro would want to help you out with this too, if he can. Have you talked about it with him?”

Sanji leaned forward, propping his head in both hands. “That’s the other thing that’s totally fucked.”

“What?” Nami sounded thrown by this.

The chef closed his eyes. And wished he could stay in the dark, forever. “Weekend before. Me and Zoro had a fight. A big one.”

“And by fight you mean...” Nami’s voice was wary, but starting to take on an edge of worry.

“He said stuff. Then I said stuff. Then we both said more stuff. At high volume.” Sanji released a hard breath. “And I told him to go away. Which he then did.”

There was a pause. Then Nami spoke again. “Sometimes couples fall out, or fight. It doesn’t mean it’s the end of things.”

“I kicked him across the fucking hallway.” Sanji let his hands fall onto his knees, lifting his head and looking at his friend. “I mean, _really_ kicked him. Hard enough to knock him into the opposite wall.”

Nami’s brows drew together slightly. But all she asked was, “And why’d you do that?”

“Because I’m an asshole.”

Her hand lifted from his shoulder – and smacked him hard on the arm. “Don’t you fucking dare say that. Don’t you _dare_. You are about as far from being an asshole as it’s possible for a human being to be.” Her eyes glared at him. “Do not say that kind of bullshit.”

“Okay.” Sanji shrugged, helplessly. “Then I’m a non-asshole who nevertheless attempts to resolve my problems by trying to kick people through walls.”

“So what did Zoro do?”

“You mean, after he managed to start breathing again?” Sanji gave her a grim look.

“I’m not talking about after you kicked him. What did he do before that? That made you _want_ to kick him?” Her face was angry now. “Because I’m pretty damn sure that if you kicked him across the hallway, Zoro must’ve been royally asking for it.”

“After we argued - I told him to go, and he wouldn’t.” Sanji knew how lame this sounded. “We were in the apartment doorway, and I told him to go away. I was closing the door – so he stopped me.”

Nami’s eyes narrowed. “How exactly did he stop you?” Sanji half shook his head. And saw his friend’s eyes widen instead. “Oh my god. Did he _hit_ you?” Nami’s eyes tracked over his face. “If Zoro touched you, I swear I will go over to his apartment and break every bone in his body - ”

“He didn’t hit me.” Sanji cut her off.

“Then what _did_ he do?”

“Like I said. He stopped me closing the door. Blocked it with his hand... Then pushed it open.”

“After you’d told him to go away?” Nami was looking angrier by the second. “He tried to force his way in here, after you’d made it clear you didn’t want him coming in?”

“Yeah. Which is when I kicked him.” Sanji grimaced. “And that pretty much precluded further discussion.”

“ _Good_.” Nami looked as though she was about to detonate.

“What’s good about it?”

“Sanji, are you kidding me? You haven’t done anything wrong. If I’d been there, I would have beaten you to it.” She was fuming now. “Being your boyfriend does not give Zoro an access-all-areas pass to your personal space. If you tell him _No_ to coming into your home and he doesn’t hear that, then he needs his fucking ass kicked. Repeatedly, if necessary.”

“Well, he’s not likely to be coming in here any time soon.”

“Again: good.” She folded her arms. “If he needs time to get his head around the radical concept that _No Means No_ , then so be it.”

Sanji thought about everything else that was in the mix: and felt overwhelmed again. Not knowing how to talk about all the things that were in his head. But knowing that what he’d said already wasn’t anywhere near the bigger picture. “It’s not that simple.”

“It really is.”

“No. I mean, it wasn’t just about that. What happened between us.”

Nami’s face got an apprehensive look. “Then... what else happened?”

“Something at _Bite Me_. That’s when all this kicked off. That’s the reason I was pissed with Zoro: why I didn’t want him coming in here in the first place.”

“So tell me.”

“There was... this woman. A working girl.”

“You mean a prostitute.”

“Yes.” Sanji swallowed that word, for now. “She comes by sometimes, I give her leftover food if there is any. Because she looks like she needs it, she’s skinny as hell...”

“And you are not a Homeless Mission.” Nami sounded less than moved. “Which I’ve told you before.”

“Nami...” Sanji gave her a steady look. “If I have leftover food: I’m not throwing it in a dumpster, when I can put it inside an actual living person instead. That’s what I do. So please don’t get on my case about it, I feel shitty enough right now.”

His friend made no reply, but after a moment she reluctantly nodded. Sanji let out an unsteady breath, before continuing. “I was closing up the stall when she showed up, said hi: Zoro was there too, he’d come to meet me after work. And this woman – I had some leftovers, like I said. So I went into the stall to get them. And when I came out and gave them to her, she just took off. Like she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

“Probably because she’d got what she came for,” Nami answered uncharitably.

“No! That’s not - ” Sanji felt himself getting angry now: forced himself to rein it in. “That’s not how it was, Nami. When she turned up she was friendly, smiling: talking with me. But when I came back out of _Bite Me_ with the food, she was different. She said thanks: but she practically ran away. She looked freaked out.”

“By what? Were there cops nearby, or something?”

“She was frightened of Zoro.” Sanji found that saying this out loud made his stomach clench again.

Nami was frowning. “Why of Zoro, specifically?”

“Because of whatever he said to her, while I was inside _Bite Me_. Because he basically told her to get lost, and not come back.” Sanji found his hands clenching too, thinking about it. “He fucking threatened her, I know he did. He said a whole bunch of nasty shit about her to me, including calling her a – whore, and – ugh. Sorry. I don’t want to repeat it all here.”

“Oh... shit.” Nami looked at him now, as she finally got it. “Sanji...”

Talking like this about what had happened made the chef feel even worse, because it made it more real. But he had to get it out of his head somehow. “I just listened to him coming out with all of that hateful crap... And all I could think was, _Who the fuck are you?_ I didn’t want to listen to him talking that kind of shit. So I told him to fuck himself: and I walked away and left him standing there.”

“Again: good.” Nami held his gaze.

“But he kept trying to call my phone. So I blocked his number. And the next thing I know, he’s on my doorstep – slipped in to the building somehow with one of my neighbours. So we’re continuing the argument we started having on the street, despite me making it pretty fucking clear that I really didn’t want to talk to him. Then I said some stuff to him I shouldn’t have: and he got angry too. That’s when he tried to get in here, and I wouldn’t let him...” Sanji shook his head. “Correction: that’s when I kicked the fuck out of him. So that was the end of any possibility of settling things rationally.”

“I think the possibility of settling things rationally ended when Zoro acted like an almighty asshole outside _Bite Me_.” Nami shook her head. “And saying stuff like that to you, of all people, about that woman... Doesn’t he get how that would be totally triggering for you?”

Sanji shut his eyes then. “No. He doesn’t.”

“Then he’s a total moron.”

“No. I mean, he doesn’t get it: because he doesn’t know about my mother. I never told him.”

Nami looked confused. “I thought you said, you’d talked to him about how things were when you were a kid.”

“I talked to him about being fostered, and how Zeff adopted me.” Sanji opened his eyes again, and returned her gaze. “I never told him about what happened before that.”

His friend bit her bottom lip. After a moment, she asked simply, “Why?”

“I was going to. When an opportunity presented itself.” Sanji found he’d wrapped his arms around his chest again. “But it’s not the kind of thing you just come out with. It’s heavy shit to lay on someone.”

“I think Zoro is not the fragile flower you evidently take him for.” Nami’s tone was heavily ironic. “And if he really does care about you, then you should be able to talk about whatever you need to with him.”

“Yeah. And I probably should have done. But I didn’t. Which is why this all blew up in my face, I realise that. So yes: I have screwed up. _Again_. Which takes us back to the my-life-has-gone-to-shit scenario.”

Nami rubbed her hands over her face, sighing: and Sanji immediately added guilt at upsetting his friend to all the other things he was currently kicking himself for. “...I’m sorry, my sweet. You don’t need to be listening to all this. This is my mess.”

She blinked: then turned her gaze on him. And her eyes were angry again. “Oh please, Sanji. _Listen_ to yourself.”

The chef winced under her tone. “Nami...”

“Is there anything in this fucked-up world that you _won’t_ try to take responsibility for?” She glared at him. “Homeless people? Starving children in Africa? Climate change?” Her voice was livid. “Zoro’s shitty attitude problems?”

“I said shitty things to him too.”

“Not half as shitty as he deserved, I’ll bet.” She shook her head. “And by the way: _fuck_ Zoro. He’s not the one dealing with major money worries, or working crazy hours to keep his business afloat. The last thing you need right now is more crap to deal with... Which is what he’s given you. Jesus, I’m pretty tempted to march round his place right goddamn now and tell him what I think of him.”

“Don’t. Please.”

Nami eyed him. “Only because it’s you asking me. But seriously, hon: you have not done anything wrong.”

“I did do something wrong. I threw stuff back in his face, things he shared with me. He _trusted_ me when he told me about that bad shit from his past – and then I dragged it up when we were arguing and used it against him.”

“Sorry, what are we talking about now?” Nami looked confused. “What bad shit from Zoro’s past?”

_Fuck_ _-_

Too late, Sanji realised he’d let out more than he should have. “Nothing. Forget I said that.”

“What bad shit?” Nami was onto it like a bloodhound. “What shit was Zoro into? And what does it have to do with any of this?”

“I can’t talk about that. Just – it’s like I told you: I said shitty stuff to Zoro, too. I handled this about as badly as I could have done. And however much of a dick Zoro acted, that doesn’t mean it was okay for me to fucking attack him physically.”

“He tried to bulldoze his way into your home when you’d very clearly told him to leave. That doesn’t qualify as you attacking him, that was self defence. And by the way: this is _Zoro_ we’re talking about. A big strong guy. Run the math, Sanji. A guy who is capable of getting extremely physical tried to force his way into your _home_. And maybe if you hadn’t kicked him across the hallway, he’d have done something worse than that to you once he’d got inside.”

Sanji actually felt nauseous then. “He wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

“I really hope so. Except he’d _already_ hurt you, by saying all those crappy things. And it sounds from what you’re telling me that he wasn’t too bothered about using physical force to get into your apartment. So that doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence that any further ‘discussion’ the two of you might have had, would’ve have ended well.” She held his gaze. “And something else, too.”

The chef didn’t want to hear there was more, but Nami ploughed on, grimly. “I have been your friend for a long time now. I love you, and I care about you; and I have a pretty good idea of how you think. I also trust your instincts. And if you used physical force to defend yourself... I’m pretty sure you thought you needed to do that. _Against Zoro_.” Her brown eyes bored into his. “Which may or may not have something to do with whatever ‘bad shit’ of his you just let slip, and which you’re being extremely fucking cagey about.”

The chef felt his anxiety climb a notch higher. “You need to forget whatever I said about that.”

“I don’t need to do anything, except make sure my best friend is okay.” This whiplashed back at him. “I don’t give two shits what Zoro’s damage is. If he hurts you, I will personally make it my mission to tear down his life and crap on the ruins.”

Sanji felt this go through him like a knife.

_I have messed this up so completely._

Somehow he managed to find his voice. Through a throat that felt tight. “...Nami. Right now, I don’t know how to fix _any_ of this. But please just believe me when I say, you going after Zoro will not help.”

She let out a long breath. And some of the fire flickered down. “...All right. He gets to live another day.”

“Thank you.”

“Unless he dares to show his face round here again. Or at _Bite Me_. If he does, I will introduce him to a whole new understanding of hell.”

“In a few weeks’ time, there may not be a _Bite Me_ for him to show up at.” Sanji felt the weight of everything pulling him down.

Nami’s expression changed, to one of concern. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is that bad.” Sanji gestured towards his desk, with its pile of threatening paperwork. “I’m not exaggerating. I am in deep shit, Nami. And I can’t see any way out.”

“Then you’re not looking in the right places.” She pressed her lips together, as if hesitating... Then fixed him with a firm gaze. “You have to talk to Zeff.”

“No.”

“It’s obvious. It’s what you have to do.”

“I’m not asking Zeff for help - ”

“So you default on your loan, and you lose _Bite Me_. Great. That’s what you want, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then do the other thing.” She spread her hands. “Pick up the goddamn phone and call him. Tell him what’s going on. Deal.”

“I can’t ask him for help with this.”

“No, that’s bullshit. You don’t _want_ to ask him for help. But you’re going to have to. Because it’s a possible way out of this situation.”

Sanji looked away. And found his hands going to his pockets, taking out cigarettes and lighter; lighting up and inhaling smoke. And then breathing out: staring at the cigarette in one hand. The lighter in the other. Zoro’s lucky koi.

He closed that hand into a fist. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

“Shit happens. Get used to it.” Nami sounded like she was trying to stop him from sinking any further. “Sanji: you have some options. Of which Zeff should definitely be your first port of call. So stop trying to do this on your own, because if you do then yes – you’re probably going to crash and burn.” Her voice took on a worried note again. “I can already tell, you’re not okay. That’s the third cigarette you’ve lit since I got here, you look like hell and I’ll bet you haven’t eaten or slept properly in days. Don’t do this to yourself. Whatever needs to be dealt with, you can’t do it if you’re existing on coffee and nicotine. Pick up the phone and call Zeff. Tonight. Tell him everything you need to tell him. Then take it from there.”

There was a silence. Which Sanji finally broke. “I don’t want to... But I will.”

Relief came into Nami’s face. “Good.”

The chef pushed his hand with the lighter back into his pocket. Let it go. “He’s going to give me so much shit.”

“Probably. But you need your dad’s help, so tough it out. And don’t forget, the reason he’s giving you shit is because he cares about you.”

“Right.” Sanji took another pull on his cigarette. “That, and the fact that he thinks I’ve fucked up almost everything in my life so far.”

“ _So_ not going down this particular conversational blind alley again.” Nami scowled at him. “You have to think positive. Even if you don’t feel it. When the shit goes down, that’s what gets you through. You want to wallow in angst, do it after you’ve paid the bills.”

A longer silence fell between them. Eventually, Sanji took a breath in... Then released it. “I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong. How I got into this crappy mess.”

“Like I said. Bad stuff happens.” Nami sighed too. “Even to good people. _Especially_ to good people, in my experience.” She leaned over and wove her arm around him, tugging him sideways towards her.

Sanji let himself lean against her, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. “So you don’t buy my theory that I’m a serial fuck-up artist _par excellence_?”

“The only people who don’t fuck things up are the ones who never risk anything. And they never create anything beautiful.” Nami spoke seriously, resting her head against his. “Hon: you set _Bite Me_ up because you wanted to do something creative and uplifting and positive with your life. And mostly, you’ve done it. You’re out there cooking amazing food and making people happy.”

“And going bankrupt...”

“You’ll figure something out.” Nami answered him determinedly. “Talk with Zeff. Then we’ll see.”

Thinking of the prospect of that conversation made Sanji’s heart sink just a little further within him.

As their encounter session had been pretty exhausting, Nami only stayed a little longer after that. At the door she gave him a parting hug, her arms squeezing him hard before she let go. “Okay. Call your dad tonight, start the ball rolling with seeing if the two of you can figure this out. Then go to bed and get some sleep.”

Propping one shoulder against the door frame, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, Sanji gave her an almost-smile. “Yeah.”

She gave him a severe look. “Promise?”

Holding up two fingers in a half-hearted salute, Sanji nodded. “Scout’s honour.”

“Like you were ever a Scout,” Nami snorted. “Just talk to him. Whatever you’re worrying his reaction might be, I guarantee it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“Mhm.” The chef gave her another unconvincing attempt at a smile.

His friend regarded him for a moment... Before leaning in and wrapping him in another hug. Holding him for longer this time. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically gentle as she spoke close to his ear. “Everything’ll work out.”

“Uh huh.” Sanji closed his eyes, his own arms linked around her. Resting his chin against her shoulder and breathing in the warm scent of her hair.

“Call me tomorrow. I want to know how things go with your dad.”

Letting out an unsteady breath, Sanji tried for humour. “If you don’t hear from me, assume he tore me a new one and I’m wallowing in a pit of self flagellation.”

“You better call me, idiot. If I don’t hear from you I’m turning up at _Bite Me_ first thing Monday morning, and _I’ll_ be the one kicking your ass.” Her voice got an edge to it.

“Understood.” Sanji tightened his arms and pressed a light kiss to her cheek, before releasing her from the hug. He gave her a small smile. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

After his friend had gone, Sanji cleared away and washed up the supper things, transferring his own mostly uneaten meal into a plastic container and stowing it in the fridge. Then he made some coffee and took it through to the other room, sitting on the couch. Lighting a cigarette took another half-minute; then he was out of activities that would let him procrastinate any longer.

_Shit._

The chef took out his mobile phone and brought up Zeff’s number in his contacts: stared at the screen for long moments, mentally bracing himself... Then hit call.

The number rang half a dozen times before Zeff picked up. “That you, eggplant?”

“Hi, crap geezer.” Sanji sighed, taking a pull on his cigarette. “Don’t you have me saved in your phone contacts list?”

“Uh huh. Just didn’t expect a call from you. To what do I owe the honour of this infrequent occurrence?”

Sanji frowned, feeling the tension inside him ratchet up a notch. “Sorry I haven’t called in a while. Things have been kind of crazy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Skip the excuses, I know you’ve probably got a heap of things to do on a Saturday night that are more interesting than shooting the breeze with an old fart like me.” Zeff said this in an ironic tone. “Strange though it might seem, I do kinda recall what it felt like to be young and dumb and burning the candle at both ends.”

“Eh...” Sanji found himself struggling to find a way in to the conversation he needed to have. “How’re things going at the Baratie?”

“Same as ever. Me riding herd on a bunch of damn reprobates who seem determined to drive me into an early grave. I won’t bore you with the particulars, but I’ve got a coupla new guys I wouldn’t trust unsupervised to boil an egg.”

“I guess you’ll have to knock ‘em into shape.” Sanji had heard this before.

“No shit. They got two choices: shape up, or ship overboard. Don’t much care one way or the other which they go for.” Zeff pronounced this with a grim chuckle. “How’s things going with your snack shack?”

Feeling his hand clench on the phone, Sanji took a deep breath. Then answered in as level a voice as he could manage, “That’s, uh... one of the reasons I called.”

“Hrm.” Zeff put a wealth of opinion into his grunt of response. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Plunging onwards, Sanji tried to reveal the bad news little by little. “I’ve run into some problems.”

“You wanna spit the whole thing out, brat? It’s late, and I got an early start tomorrow.”

“I’ve got cash flow issues.”

Zeff sounded irritated. “Drop the goddamn jargon and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Unable to hold it back any longer, Sanji heard himself blurt out his worst fear. “I think I’m going to lose my business.”

There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line. Eventually Zeff said slowly, “You’re gonna have to break that down some for me, kid.”

“My customer numbers are down, because of the summer break. I’ve been taking on catering work at weekends, but still only just kept afloat. Then my lease company stung me for a big repair bill, and now I’m fucked. My credit card’s maxed out, I don’t have any savings left after set-up costs, and even if I work seven days a week I can’t generate the money I’m going to need to pay off the bills.” Sanji felt all the panic inside him fighting to get out: held it back, with an effort. “I’ve been trying to figure a way out from under, but I can’t work any more hours than I’m doing right now... As it is, I’m barely keeping up with everything.”

“You’re working weekends as well as weekdays?”

“Uhm, yeah. I mean, when I get the catering work. Which is most weekends.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Followed by a heavy sigh. “Goddamn it, brat. When are you going to learn to ask for help when you need it?”

“I thought I was asking now.”

“At the eleventh hour. Don’t tell me you didn’t see any of this coming.”

“I didn’t know things were going to get this bad.” Sanji found himself staring at his desk on the other side of the room, with its heaps of paperwork.

“Then you sure as hell shouldn’t be running your own business.”

That stopped the conversation. For almost a full half minute.

When Sanji found his voice once more, it came out pinched. “You’re telling me I should quit?”

“Did I say that, dumb eggplant? No. What I meant was, if you seriously want to make a go of this thing, you need to get on top of this stuff. You need to know what the hell is going on with your finances. You need to have contingency plans.”

“I know. I just didn’t plan for the fucking contingency of my lease company stinging me for a colossal repair bill that wasn’t my fault in the first place.”

“Newsflash, brat: landlords are not good Samaritans. The only thing that endears you to them is you paying the bills, promptly and in full. Next time read the small print on your lease.”

“Right. Thanks for that helpful tip.”

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to be a smartass right now. You’re the one called me, asking for help. That means if I want to tell you some home truths, you zip your lip and listen.”

This time Sanji clenched his fist. Pressed it so hard into his thigh it hurt.

Zeff’s voice snapped in his ear. “I’m gonna take that silence as a yes. So: you’re out of cash, and you’ve got big bills to pay. Not to mention your rent, and the monthly payment on the bank loan. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Guess I should be glad it’s you calling me, then. Not the bank in a few weeks’ time, letting me know that they’re collecting from me what’s owed them.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen!” Sanji actually punched his thigh with his fist this time. “Shit.”

“Glad to hear it. But the fact is, you need money, to meet these obligations. So that’s why you’re calling me.”

“...Yes. I need help. Paying off what I owe this month.” Sanji felt getting these words out actually hurt.

“What about next month?”

“I... What?”

“What happens if you’re in the same fix a month from now? Are you gonna expect to be bailed out then?”

“I won’t be in the same position next month. I’ll have paid off this crappy repair bill, it’ll just be my normal outgoings. And hopefully my customer numbers’ll pick up again.”

“You mean I’ll have paid off your crappy repair bill. And you haven’t answered my question.”

“I just fucking answered it!”

“You’re not understanding me, eggplant.” Zeff spoke very deliberately. “You can’t go on running your business lurching from crisis to crisis. You need to be doing well: not just scraping by. If you can’t figure out how to do that... Then you’re better off cutting your losses, and finding yourself a chefing job in a decent kitchen somewhere.”

“I can make this work! I _was_ making this work, till I got that damn repair bill. Things were going okay, I was building up customers – and getting this catering work at weekends, too.”

“Swell. I’m happy for you. How about your life? How’s that going?”

“The fuck... _What?”_ Sanji took his fist from his leg... And clenched it in his hair instead. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, you dumb brat. You really have got this ass-backwards.” Zeff sounded like he too was getting angry, but trying to keep a lid on it. “Let me make this as clear as it seems you need it to be, before one of us loses the will to live. There is no damn point in you making this business of yours work, if it costs you everything else. Working for a living is what we all have to do: but what the hell good is it having a successful business, if it means you have a shitty life?”

“Who says I have a shitty life?”

“Working the kind of crazy hours you were just talking about? You can’t keep that up. And if you do, you’ll wind up a basket case. The last thing I want is to have to come drag you back home and put you back together, because you were too dumb to take care of yourself.”

“I can cope, shitty old geezer!”

“Great. Eating okay? Getting your head down for eight hours every night?” The old chef said this grimly. “Or are you replacing meals and sleep with cigarettes and coffee?”

Sanji propped his face in his hand. “I am an adult. I don’t need a bed check.”

“Yeah, right. Who else is gonna call you on your bullshit, when you get like this? Your boyfriend? I notice he’s not featuring big in this conversation.”

“This is nothing to do with him.”

“Why is that, exactly?” Zeff’s tone sharpened.

“We’re not...” Sanji gritted his teeth, not wanting to get into this. “Look, this is my problem, okay?”

“Which ought to make it his problem too. If he gives a damn about you.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Because?”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

“The two of you fallen out or something?”

Sanji had no answer. And suddenly couldn’t find any way to respond. Because his throat was closing up and his hand was clenched in his hair and he suddenly felt buried under a wave of misery. He tried to make some kind of answer, though: because silence would have told Zeff everything anyway. “...Things aren’t so great with us right now.” His voice came out rough.

When Zeff spoke again, his voice had changed as well. Become gruff, but quieter too. “Sorry to hear that, eggplant.”

“...Mhm.” It was all Sanji could manage.

“I guess there’s not a chance in hell you’ll tell me what actually happened.”

“We... had a fight.” Sanji swallowed.

“Verbal or physical?” His father’s question came with sudden steel.

 _Both,_ would have been the honest answer. But no way was Sanji going to say that. “We argued... about some bad stuff.”

“Okay...” The old chef sounded marginally less poised for homicide. “So maybe the two of you’ll patch things up.”

“Yeah... Maybe.”

“You better be telling me the truth, brat.” Zeff’s voice was sharp again. “If that shitty piece of walking bonsai lays a finger on you, they’ll be finding his remains across three states.”

That made two people who’d threatened Zoro with lethal violence, in the same evening. The fact that they’d done it because they cared about Sanji should have been comforting. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I don’t care why the hell that shitty turf top isn’t helping you out with this situation, but the fact that he’s not makes me inclined to kick his ass first and ask questions afterwards.”

“Look... It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah: in the unlikely event that _you_ ever have a kid and someone does something bad to them, try remembering this conversation. I guarantee you’ll see it in a different light.”

“Okay. Fine. Please can we go back to you giving me shit about my lack of financial omniscience?”

“If we have to. But remember this, brat: I’m your old man. Many things come under that job description, including things which are an almighty pain in the ass... For you as well as for me. But what is never gonna change, is that I care about your wellbeing. You ought to know by now that I don’t sugar-coat stuff you need to hear. So I’m telling you now, loud and clear; you don’t need people around you in your life who disappear when the going gets tough. If that’s the kind of guy Zoro is, you’re better off without him.”

Sanji breathed in. “That’s not the kind of person he is.” While thinking, _I don’t really know any more what kind of person he is. And I’m not likely to find out, after kicking him across a hallway._

Zeff grunted. “Then I hope he gets his fucking act together, and actually does something useful like be there for you. Because you sound like shit, kid.”

“I’m okay. It’s just... everything feels crappy right now.”

“Uh huh. Then let’s see what we can figure out together, and get you some of the way out from under all this mess.”

“I don’t want to quit.” Sanji found himself saying this. Like a plea. “I still really want to make _Bite Me_ work.”

“Good. That’s half the battle.” Zeff sounded more encouraging now. “I’m gonna need you to take me through exactly what your outgoings are; and when they’re due. Then we can think about the best way to cover them. Luckily my bank account’s in pretty good shape right now, and I’ve got a bit put by so that gives us some leeway.”

“Crap geezer...” Sanji felt gratitude; and guilt; and the same endless sense of fallibility that currently seemed to be his constant companion. “...I’m sorry.”

“For crying out loud, eggplant: stop apologising for taking up space on this planet. If I have to get the train up there and kick some sense into you, I will do. But I’d prefer not to have to do that, because those idiots working for me in the Baratie would probably catch it on fire then sink it, while I’m away.”

The thought of his father actually physically appearing on the scene was sufficiently alarming that Sanji managed to pull himself together. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Good,” growled Zeff. There was a brief pause, then the old chef gave a short sigh. “You got spreadsheets you can email me, with all your figures from the past few months?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sanji was relieved he could at least show he was on top of his paperwork. “I keep my books right up to date, I do them every week.”

“So you should. Okay, send me what you got. I’ll take a look and call you back Monday night. Won’t be till late, we got a big booking at the Baratie for some wedding anniversary and the place is gonna be packed.”

“I’ll send the stuff to you now.” Sanji was already standing up and moving towards his desk.

“Great. A little light bedtime reading is just what I needed,” his parent said dryly.

Sitting down and flipping open his laptop, Sanji propped one elbow on the desk and supported his forehead in his hand. “I really appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Save the thanks till you’ve heard what I have to say Monday,” Zeff answered. “You might not like everything you hear.”

“Compared to the total shitfest I’m in now? Can’t get any worse than this.”

“Y’know, occasionally you seem like you’re growing up, brat: and not before time. Then you go and ruin it by saying something dumb like that.” The old chef sounded pissed. “Life can get plenty worse than this, and you know it. You’re young, you’re healthy, and you don’t have to figure this out on your own. You always did have a talent for moping, and it gets you precisely jack-shit. Lose the dramatics, just face whatever shit you need to, and deal.”

For some reason, this made a wry smile come on to Sanji’s face. Nami’s words suddenly echoing in his mind.

_\- You have to think positive. Even if you don’t feel it. When the shit goes down, that’s what gets you through. You want to wallow in angst, do it after you’ve paid the bills._

“You still there, eggplant? Or are you just sulking?” 

“I’m here.” Sanji’s laptop had booted up: he opened his emails, then began typing Zeff’s address. “Just... What you said? My friend who came round earlier tonight, she said almost the exact same thing.”

“Then she’s a smart cookie. Listen to her.”

“I will.” Sanji attached his spreadsheets to the email, then clicked on send. “Okay, I’m emailing my accounts to you now.”

A short pause, then: “Yeah. I got ‘em.” Zeff was evidently sitting at his desk too.

“Okay. Then... thanks. I’ll wait to hear from you Monday.”

“Fine. You eaten, this evening?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Bullshit.” The old chef snorted. “Go fix yourself something, then go to bed. Get your shit together.”

Taking a deep breath, Sanji found himself giving a small, weary smile. “Okay, crap geezer.”

“Speak tomorrow, eggplant.” There was a click as his adoptive father rang off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we are pretty good at getting in our own way... And that's when friends stepping in with a reality check and shoving us firmly in the direction we need to go are so valuable.
> 
> ...Also, why are so many of us so bad at asking for the help we really need? I don't think I can say this too loudly: if you're lucky enough to have people in your life who are in a position to help, LET THEM HELP YOU. Allowing other people to give to us is an act of generosity in itself. We're often good at giving but soooo bad at receiving. Imagine how bad someone who cares about you would feel if they found out you'd been were suffering, and they could've helped.
> 
> (OK, lecture over with. Just, I'm with Nami on this one.)
> 
> <3 <3 <3 to all you lovely readers. I know it's getting gruelling. Stick with it... Only 3 more chapters to go. ;-)


	14. How It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro gave Luffy a look. “You want to play farmer boy, do it without me. Probably be working a double shift next weekend.”
> 
> “Daww...” Luffy looked crestfallen. “How come?”
> 
> The swordsman shrugged. “Couple extra shifts came up. I could use the money.”
> 
> “Gotta take the work when it’s there, huh: earn that yankee dollar.” Usopp nodded understandingly beside him. “You gonna try to help Sanji out? Sounds like he’s really up against it, right now.”
> 
> Zoro stared at the ground in front of them, feeling a frown pull his brows together. A heavy nothing feeling filled him up inside, making it hard to figure out what to answer. After a short pause, he managed something pretty neutral. “Don’t think he wants that kind of help.”

* * *

_This is how it goes:  
One more failure to connect  
With so many how could I object?  
And you, what on earth did you expect?  
Well, I can't tell you, baby  
When this is how it goes_

_\- Aimee Mann_

* * *

Of the many options Zoro had for passing the time when he wasn’t at work, planting trees had never featured high on the list. In fact, planting trees had never even been on his radar. Trees were good, or so people seemed to think: and he certainly appreciated the shade they threw whenever he caught a nap under one in the park. But it had never occurred to him to wonder how trees got into a city in the first place. He knew trees grew from seeds, he wasn’t a total moron; so maybe seeds got put there by birds, or squirrels, or some shit like that. Or if you were some rich yuppie family living in the burbs you probably planted trees by the sackload, to jack up your property values. But in the neighbourhoods where he’d lived, trees were usually absent.

Except now they weren’t. Because he and a bunch of other folks with nothing better to do on a Sunday were currently excavating holes in the rocky soil of a vacant lot and dumping tiny tree saplings into them. Along with a whole load of other stuff, as part of what the hand-lettered banner strung up across the front of the lot proclaimed to be _GUERRILLA GARDENING!_ And underneath in slightly smaller but no less wobbly letters, _GET INVOLVED AND GREEN OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD._

Normally, hanging out with a mob of tree huggers wouldn’t have been Zoro’s bag. But a flyer had been stuffed into their mailbox and Luffy had pounced on it with glee, recruiting Zoro and Usopp as co-conspirators in the unofficial project which the flyer claimed would take over an unused plot of land in their neighbourhood and ‘ _transform it into a beautiful and productive greenspace_ ’... Or something like that. Zoro’s lack of enthusiasm and Usopp’s feeble protests that getting up before midday on a weekend was brutal were steamrollered by Luffy’s usual unstoppable determination.

Which was why Zoro was standing here now in the Sunday mid-afternoon summer heat, trying to break up the rock-hard ground of the lot with a piece-of-shit shovel that was clearly not up to the task. He drove the edge of the shovel into the earth and felt it _ding_ against another buried chunk of rubble, jarring his wrist. Cursing under his breath, Zoro stepped back and took a breather, regarding the rest of the lot. About a dozen die-hard volunteers were toiling in various parts of the space, either wielding shovels and other tools, or crouching down to plant stuff in the dry earth. Here and there a few kids poked seeds into the soil or sloshed watering cans onto the ground or each other.

A few yards away from him, Usopp gave him a wry grin. “Okay, if you’re taking a time-out so am I.” And he laid his own shovel to one side, before flopping down to sit on the ground.

Zoro joined his friend, sitting down himself. Usopp held his hands out in front of him, and inspected them. “Jeez... Think I’m getting blisters. Ground’s like concrete.”

Giving a grunt of agreement, Zoro picked up a water bottle he’d brought with him and took a long drink. Wiping his mouth, he gestured with his thumb at the ground they’d already covered, where other volunteers were now planting the small tree saplings. “Figure any of those’ll actually grow?”

“Depends.” Usopp shrugged. “If someone looks after ‘em, maybe. They’ll need water, and keeping an eye on. Y’know: make sure the neighbourhood kids don’t just snap ‘em in half, or whatever.”

“You volunteering for guard duty?” Zoro gave him a look.

“How much do you bet Luffy’s already signed us both up for that?” Usopp gave him a wry grin.

“...Fuck.” Zoro suspected the artist was right.

Usopp sniggered. “There’s probably a rota or somethin’. Neighbourhood Garden Patrol. Hey, maybe we’ll get a badge to wear.”

“Aww... You’re not quitting already? C’mon, guys!” Luffy materialised in front of them, grinning and shirtless, hands muddy to the elbows. Brown smudges of earth were streaked across his face, like tribal warpaint. “There’s still a shitload to do.”

“Who appointed you foreman?” Zoro retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s that whole bit there still needs digging over,” Luffy proclaimed, sweeping his arm to encompass roughly half the lot.

“Yes suh, massuh.” Usopp gave Luffy a mocking salute, dropping into an approximation of a Deep South twang. “We’se a-goin’ ta git right down to diggin dat field and hoein’ dat row, sho’nuff.”

“There’s a ton of rocks we’ve picked out, too. We could make path with ‘em,” Luffy suggested cheerfully.

Zoro regarded his younger friend with a flatly discouraging look. “Like hell.”

Luffy just grinned, before crouching down next to them. “This is such a cool idea. No-one was using this lot, and now it’s gonna be a park full of trees and flowers and food.”

“Food?” Usopp queried.

Luffy pointed at some of the trees that had already planted. “Those ones there’re apple trees – and that plot over there is where we just sowed corn, and next to that those guys are planting beans, and right next to that there’s gonna be pumpkins...”

“It’s like a cultural heritage trail, in food form,” Usopp proclaimed mock-solemnly.

“How’re they gonna stop the local brats from raiding the stuff once it’s grown?” Zoro dryly asked.

“We’re gonna take turns in looking after it.” Luffy beamed. “You guys are on my team. We get first shift next weekend.”

“Told you...” Usopp snickered, giving Zoro a sidelong wink.

The swordsman gave Luffy a look. “You want to play farmer boy, do it without me. Probably be working a double shift next weekend.”

“Daww...” Luffy looked crestfallen. “How come?”

Zoro shrugged. “Couple extra shifts came up. I could use the money.”

“Gotta take the work when it’s there, huh: earn that yankee dollar.” Usopp nodded understandingly beside him. “You gonna try to help Sanji out? Sounds like he’s really up against it, right now.”

Zoro stared at the dug-over ground in front of them, feeling a frown pull his brows together. A heavy nothing feeling filled him up inside, making it hard to figure out what to answer. After a short pause, he managed something pretty neutral. “Don’t think he wants that kind of help.”

“Hmm...” Usopp looked rueful. “I feel bad things are so tough for him. Told him to shout ‘f there was anything we could do... Don’t think he will, though. I get the vibe off him that he wants to handle things himself.”

“Yeah.” That felt like the safest answer. Zoro kept his gaze on the ground a few feet in front of them.

“Sanji couldn’t work any harder, that’s for sure. Looked totally wiped when I saw him a few days back.” Usopp sighed. “Been weeks since the last time he just hung out... Can’t you talk him into having a break, couple days off or something? Really looks like he needs it.”

Zoro made no answer, not actually having one. That left a gap, which Luffy helpfully filled by explaining, “Sanji and Zoro had a fight.”

The swordsman felt something like anger kindle up in his chest then. He looked at his roomie, signalling _Shut the fuck up_ with his glance, but Luffy was oblivious.

Usopp looked between the two of them, and read the weather: his eyes widened slightly. “...Oh. Uh. Shit.” He folded his arms over his chest, glancing uncomfortably at the swordsman. “Sorry, man. I, uh, didn’t know you guys were... Uh...” The artist floundered slightly. “Fighting. Or whatever.”

“We’re not fighting.” Zoro answered shortly.

“Uh. Right.” Usopp looked baffled.

The swordsman wanted not to be talking about this. “We’re not seeing each other right now.”

“Eh, okay.” Nodding quickly, Usopp looked like he’d got the message and was backing off. Albeit with a small unhappy frown of confusion on his face.

“It’s totally dumb,” proclaimed Luffy, shaking his head at Zoro. “You should go talk to Sanji.”

This time, Zoro let the anger surface. “Didn’t ask for your advice, shithead.”

Luffy met his gaze levelly, not in the least daunted. “Things are tough for him right now, he needs friends.”

“Right now, he doesn’t need me. That I do fuckin’ know.” To avoid saying something that he knew he’d regret later, Zoro stood up in a sudden movement and walked away, grabbing his shovel and heading for an undug patch of ground a few yards from where they’d been sitting.

Driving his shovel into the rock-studded soil for a while went some way to venting his anger. So by the time Usopp got brave enough to approach him, Zoro had pretty much got on top of it.

“Eh...” Usopp gave a stagey clearing of his throat. “Room for another pair of hands there, dude? Or you want to finish off this entire lot yourself?”

Pausing only to drive the shovel into the earth enough that it stood up on its own, Zoro wiped his arm across his forehead and turned around. Usopp was standing there with his own shovel across his shoulders, and wearing an expression that hovered between nervousness and apology. The swordsman let out a breath, then shook his head. “You want to lend a hand, knock yourself out.” And he gave a fleeting half-smile, to signal he wasn’t going to swing a shovel at anyone.

Usopp looked relieved. And smiled too. “Cool.” He slung his shovel in front of him, and attempted to dig it deep into the ground with a mighty thrust. The crunch of metal against stone made the artist stagger, almost falling over backwards before managing to regain his balance with windmilling arms. “Whoa! Okay, okay, I got this. No problem.” He grasped the shovel handle and shot a furtive glance around the lot. “Damn. Were any babes watching just then? My reputation as a manly tower of strength just took major damage.”

Zoro snorted, before rolling his shoulders to try and loosen the ache that was starting to build there. “Right.” His t-shirt was sticking to his skin with sweat: he decided to follow Luffy’s example and stripped it off over his head, tucking the shirt into the back of his jeans.

“Oh _great_ ,” groaned Usopp, putting one hand over his eyes. “Like any female in the vicinity is even gonna _notice_ me now.” He began pecking at the ground with his shovel again, more cautiously this time. “How am I supposed to compete with those abs? You have any idea how hard it is for me sometimes, hanging with you?”

The swordsman gave him a sidelong look; then nodded. “Yeah.” And meant it.

Usopp gave him a sheepish peace-offering smile in return. “Hey: I said the wrong thing, back there. I just didn’t know. About you and Sanji. I’m really sorry.”

Zoro shrugged, not wanting to get back into this territory. “S’okay. Luffy was the one stirring the shit.”

“Yeah, well: Luffy...” Usopp spread both hands, raising his eyebrows. “You know his mouth moves when he thinks.”

“Do I fuckin’ ever.” Zoro looked across the lot, to where Luffy was now in animated conversation with some random red-haired guy. “He needs to learn when to shut the hell up.”

“It’s kind of why we love him, though.” Usopp said this placatingly. “I mean, sure: subtle and Luffy, not so much. But one thing you never get from him is bullshit. Whatever he says, you know he means it.”

“Uh huh.” The swordsman was prepared to concede that one.

Over on the far side of the lot Luffy was evidently explaining to the red-haired guy about the guerrilla gardening project, gesturing energetically around him at everything that was going on. Looking round he spotted Usopp and Zoro together and grinned, before heading towards them, tugging the red-haired man in tow. “Eh, guys! – You wanna go kick back with a beer after this?”

“How about we go grab a beer now?” Zoro responded, digging his shovel into the stony ground with a grunt of effort. “Had about enough of this shit.”

“Still got...” Luffy pointed at a pile of tree saplings in makeshift flowerpots, bunched in the shade of a building. “... all those trees to plant. Every tree we plant helps save the world from climate change!”

The swordsman flung a shovelful of stony earth to one side. “Whatever. Ten more minutes, and I’m outta here.”

The red-haired guy who’d been looking on with an amused look gave a short laugh. “Way to go with motivating the workforce, Luffy.” He grinned at Zoro, before gesturing to a large red plastic cooler he’d set down on the ground beside him. “You wanna beer now, grab one. Plenty to go round.”

“Yeah?” Zoro glanced at the cooler, then back to the guy. Who was wearing surf shorts, a ratty much-worn t-shirt that declaimed EAT SLEEP RAVE REPEAT, a stubbly beard, and that wide grin.

“No way!” Luffy stepped in between Zoro and the cooler, folding his arms across his chest and looking severe. “Trees first!”

“Hold my shovel,” Zoro instructed Usopp, passing the tool across. The artist took it with a somewhat bemused look, which freed the swordsman to grab Luffy in a headlock. “Pain-in-the-ass mother _fucker_ \- ”

“Nyahh!” Luffy yelled and simultaneously began laughing, as the two of them scuffled across the ground; then fell over and started to punch and wrestle in the dirt.

“Just stand well clear till it’s all over, dude,” Usopp advised the red-haired guy. “They usually work it out without actual bloodshed.”

“...Heh.” The man cracked the lid of his cooler, watching the fight progress. “Wanna beer while we watch?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Usopp took the frosty can and popped it open, pausing only to chink it against the other man’s before taking a swallow.

Five minutes of dusty grappling later, Zoro tried to pin Luffy’s shoulders to the ground: received a knee in the back that knocked his breath out. Wriggling free from underneath the swordsman, Luffy came up to a crouch. With hands braced on the ground to move, he bared his teeth in a grin. “Wanna go another round?”

Zoro got to his feet, tonguing the cut in his lip a random blow from Luffy had put there. “What I want is a fuckin’ beer, dipshit.” He gave the younger man a stony look... Before reaching down with his hand to help him all the way up.

Luffy took the swordman’s hand and sprang to his feet, before slapping the dust from his shorts. “Heh... That was fun.”

Giving a wry smile himself, Zoro snagged his t-shirt from the ground where it had wound up early in the fight, and used it to wipe his face. “Asshole.”

“The tree-planting folks here are getting kinda antsy.” Usopp jerked a thumb at some of the guerrilla garden volunteers, who were casting frowns of disapproval in their direction. “Think maybe we should call it?”

“Yeah. Let’s get outta here.” Zoro pulled his t-shirt on.

They walked away from the lot down the street in the general direction of the park, the red-haired guy having yielded his cooler to Usopp. The man gave Zoro a quick grin. “Good fight.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro rubbed his jaw, grimacing slightly. “Sneaky little fucker always fights dirty.”

“Best way to fight,” laughed the redhead, before holding out a hand. “Shanks.”

“Zoro.” The swordsman shook it. And realised for the first time that the man’s other arm ended in a prosthetic with a hook.

Shanks’ grip was strong: his eyes darkly humorous, the left one bracketed by three diagonal scar-lines that ran above and below it. He followed Zoro’s gaze and gestured casually with the hook. “Assume I’ve heard all the pirate jokes: saves time.”

Electing not to comment, Zoro nodded towards Luffy. “You guys know each other?”

“Ran into him at the Ark, a while back.” Shanks raised his eyebrows. “He kinda catches your attention.”

“Right.”

“Know Usopp, too.” Shanks gestured at the artist. “Through the music scene. His old man and me go way back.”

“Shanks gave me my hat!” Luffy flourished the battered straw hat he’d pretty much been wearing every hour he was awake during the past two months.

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “You still hanging onto that thing?”

“Hell yeah!” Luffy clutched the hat against his head, protectively. “I got it for busting the coolest moves on the dance floor, right?”

“No-one else dances like you do, that’s for sure,” agreed Shanks.

“And you play the best music.” Beaming, Luffy began bopping to an imaginary techno beat.

“You DJ?” Zoro asked.

Shanks tugged at his t-shirt. “Like it says. And I get on the mike, do vocals for a coupla local bands. ” And then he gave a sly grin. “Amongst other things.”

The park when they reached it was busy with people seeking respite in the greenspace from the summer heat, but they managed to find a patch of shade under some scrubby trees. Shanks’ cooler held a couple of six packs, which meant enough each to cut through the thirst Zoro had developed while shovelling dirt in the guerrilla garden.

“Thanks.” Zoro waved his beer at the older man, before taking a gulp of the cold brew.

“ _De nada_.” Shanks smiled, before taking a pull at his own drink. “Was in the neighbourhood anyways, happy to be the Good Beer Fairy.”

“You live hereabouts?”

“Nope.” The DJ shook his head. “Just passin’ through. Got an RV fixed up with all my shit. Kinda works for me, being on the move.”

“In this city? Don’t the cops hassle you, when you try to park up?”

“They do.” Shanks let out a short laugh. “But hey: if you’re pissing someone off, you’re know you’re doing something right.”

Zoro grunted, raised an eyebrow. “Pissing off cops? Figure that’ll end well?”

The red-haired man regarded him, a smile playing under eyes that glinted with something else. “Eh, y’know: livin’ on the edge. Sometimes you gotta fight for the right to party.”

“Yeah, sure.” Zoro had heard this kind of shit before, in various forms. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“Someone’s got to pick up the shipwreck survivors.” Shanks steady gaze and smile were somehow challenging. “Don’t see the authorities handing out lifebelts.”

“Uh?”

“C’mon. The climate’s screwed, the economy’s tanked, our esteemed leaders are too busy seeing who can piss the farthest to care the planet’s on fire, and some city cop wants to bust me for a parking violation? Or for throwing a party?” The DJ shook his head. “Just gonna do my thing.”

“Good luck with that.”

Shanks’ knowing smile broadened a notch. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” He raised his voice, directing his next words at Usopp. “Hey, ‘Sopp. Your old man says he’s lookin’ forward to seeing you, next time we play.”

“Yeah?” Usopp visibly brightened, sitting upright from where he’d been sprawled back on his elbows on the grass. “I didn’t even know he was back in town. How’s he doing?”

“Good as gold, the way he tells it.” Shanks nodded. “Sweet piece of timing, always got a spot for him in our line-up. Nobody spins the decks like your pops.”

“Oh man. That’ll be awesome.” Usopp looked elated at this piece of news.

Zoro knew just how much seeing his father meant to his friend. “How long’s it since you saw him last?”

“Nine, ten months, maybe?” Usopp blinked, looking down at his beercan for a moment: then back up again, bringing a smile onto his own face. “Yeah. Feels like longer. But, y’know: he had to be elsewhere for a while. Cops here kept giving him grief, they pulled stop and search on him like a dozen times last year... He decided to get the hell out before they tried anything worse.” His hands flexed nervously on his beercan, making the thin metal pop. “Five-Oh stopped me comin’ back from the corner store few weeks back. Had me a killer case of munchies at 2 AM, went out to get a sugar fix... Next thing I know, two of our uniformed finest on a drive-by had me up against a wall emptying my pockets. I knew I didn’t have anything on me they could bust me for, but somehow that didn’t stop my life flashin’ before my eyes.”

“Fuckin’ assholes.” Shanks pronounced this quietly, but with force. “What happened to you is _bullshit_ , bro. But Yasopp’s back now, where he belongs. And he’ll always have a stage and a set of decks anyplace I’ve got an in.”

Usopp’s mouth tightened... Before he nodded firmly. “Sure.”

Tipping his beer can one way then the other, considering what Usopp had said, Zoro met Shanks’ gaze. The older man’s brows had drawn down, but surprisingly he also wore a smile. “You said you and Yasopp go back a ways?”

Shanks took a pull on his own beer before answering. “Oh yeah.” His dark eyes measured Zoro. “They keep on fucking with our crew. But one day it’ll get evened up.”

That would have sounded like gangsta bullshit, except for the absolute certainty the DJ’s dark gaze conveyed. Zoro wondered exactly how a techno DJ and singer planned to take on a bunch of racist cops: and found himself smiling grimly.

_All power to ya._

“Hey, Shanks.” Luffy was lying on his stomach, chin resting on his folded arms. “You gonna be doing Apocalypso, at the Ark?”

“Already workin’ on our set.” The older man nodded.

“There’s gonna be a kickass line-up.” Luffy smiled beatifically. “Franky said he’s gonna do a song.”

“Oh god no.” Usopp groaned, visibly shrinking from Luffy’s news. “Can we make him _not_ sing? How much alcohol would it take to do that?”

Shanks laughed. “More the merrier.”

“It’ll be the party to end all parties!” Luffy enthused. “Finish the summer at the Ark with a bang. Hey! Franky said he was gonna rig some pyrotechnics, too.”

“Franky singing? Franky _with explosives?”_ Usopp fell backwards to lie flat, covering his face with his arms. “We are fucking _doomed_.”

They stayed in the park till the beers ran out. Shanks got to his feet, slung his cooler under one arm, and gave them a casual salute. “Thanks for the company. Luffy: you still good to put up those flyers we was talking about, ‘f I drop ‘em off at your place midweek?”

“Sure!” Luffy gave him a thumbs-up. “Usopp’s gonna help me.”

“I am?” Usopp looked at him sideways.

“Yeah, I need someone to hold the glue while I paste ‘em on the walls.” Luffy nodded.

“Right.” The lanky artist didn’t look thrilled at this piece of news. “So... Illegal flyposting Thursday night. Great. I’ll make a note in my schedule.”

“Cool. Then I’ll see y’around, guys.” Shanks grinned; lifted a hand in farewell, then wandered away across the park.

Usopp split for his own place: so Zoro and Luffy wound up heading back to their apartment alone. They’d been walking a few minutes when a familiar ringtone suddenly blared full volume from Luffy’s pocket.

_“So light ‘em up, up, up / Light ‘em up, up, up / Light ‘em up, up, up / I’m on fire - ”_

Luffy grabbed his phone. “Hey, Ace!” He listened for half a minute, then spoke again. “Nah, but we’re heading that way now. Should be there in ten. Okay, see ya!” Stowing his phone away again, he grinned at Zoro. “Ace is coming over.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro hadn’t seen the fire juggler in a while.

“You wanna do a movie night? Usopp copied me a bunch of stuff off his hard drive, we could make it an all-nighter.”

“Working an early start tomorrow.” Zoro shrugged.

“Okay: how about a late-nighter, then?”

As it was doubtful he’d get much sleep anyway with Luffy and Ace having their own movie fest in the living room, Zoro grunted assent. “Okay.”

Once they were home Luffy set about amassing suitable movie-watching snacks, raiding fridge and cupboards, while Zoro ditched his dusty clothes and took a shower.

By the time he wandered through into the main room, rubbing his hair with a towel, Ace was already ensconced on the couch beside his younger brother, the two of them with feet propped on the table and rifling through a gargantuan packet of chips.

“Hey. ‘Sup.” Ace smiled at the swordsman, lifting a hand in greeting.

Zoro nodded in return, sitting down in the saggy armchair and harvesting a can of beer from the six-pack on the table. “Hey. Been a while.”

“Yeah... Places to go, people to see, things to be set on fire.” Ace smirked.

“Guess summer’s good for your kinda work, huh.”

“So many festivals, so little time.” The fire juggler spread his hands, shrugging. “What can I say. There’s only so much awesomeness I can spread around. Marco and me have been working our tails off, but hey: bringing a little light into the lives of others is what I live for.”

The swordsman snorted. “Pass the fuckin’ chips.”

After the second action movie finished and before the third, Zoro took a time out to seek more cold beers from the kitchen. They were out of cans so that necessitated hunting for a bottle opener: while he was rooting in the chaos of their cutlery drawer, Ace wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Hmm... You got any salsa?”

“Nope.”

“Guacamole?”

Rummaging through cutlery, Zoro gave him a look. “Corner store’s probably still open.”

“Nah. That sounds like actual effort’s involved.” Ace shut the fridge after having extracted a bottle of beer, and cocked an eyebrow at the label. “High Life? Ugh.”

“Tough it out.” The swordsman finally spotted the opener and disentangled it from the drawer’s contents, before flicking off the cap on his own bottle. He tossed the opener to Ace, who it turned out wasn’t paying attention and dropped it with a clatter onto the floor. “Nice juggling skills.”

“Damn.” Ace bent down and snagged the opener from the floor, before popping the cap on his beer. “Have you know, I spent years honing my skills. Best receiver in the business.”

“That’s the word on the street.”

“Got to give a little, to get a little.” Ace gave a sly smile, taking a swallow of beer. “Yeoww... That is _cold_.” He pinched his forehead.

“Fridge’ll do that.”

“Thank you for the public infomercial. Hey: you got a minute to talk?”

Zoro looked at the other man, hearing the tone of Ace’s voice change. The fire juggler was looking at the swordsman soberly, the smile gone from his face.

_Uh oh. Ambush._

Swallowing a gulp of his own beer and concealing the wariness he felt at being asked, Zoro shrugged. “Depends what you want to talk about.”

Ace leaned back against a kitchen counter, watching him. “Luffy told me you and Sanji had a bust-up.”

Zoro kept his face expressionless. “Uh huh.”

The fire juggler narrowed his eyes. “Don’t go all enigmatic on me, shithead. What happened?”

“Argued about some stuff. Had a fight.” Zoro scraped with one thumbnail at the edge of the label on his beer bottle, where it was lifting away from the glass. “He told me to get lost.”

“Wait – you guys had a _fight?_ As in, throwing punches?” Ace frowned.

“Mostly yelling shit.” The swordsman didn’t want to share that he’d been kicked across a hallway.

“Oh fer chrissake.” Ace looked irritated. “So why aren’t you over there now, patching things up?”

“Like I said. He told me to get lost.”

“Heat of the moment. We’ve all been there.” The fire juggler folded his arms across his chest. “Call him. Or text bomb him till he answers.”

“He’s blocked my number. And deleted me off his friends lists.”

Ace’s face fell. “Whoa. What the fuck did you say, to piss him off so bad?”

Zoro didn’t have any better an answer than the same one he’d given Luffy a week previous. “Hell if I know.”

“Come _on_.” Ace shook his head. “You must have some idea. Jesus, you guys seemed really tight... It must have been something major, for him to react like this.”

The swordsman thought of all the things he could say, but wouldn’t. Took another pull at his beer and frowned at the floor.

Ace sighed. “You really piss me off when you do this.”

“Get in line.” Zoro gave a brief, humourless smile.

“Did you guys fall out about his work? I know he’s been putting in a lot of hours, that can be hard to deal with.”

“I didn’t get on his case about that.” _Much._

“Okay then, what?” Ace waited for a response, got none; then his eyes widened slightly. “Did you fuck around on him?”

Zoro felt his jaw clench. “No.”

The fire juggler regarded him for a long moment. Then shook his head. “Then whatever it is, it ought to be fixable. Go talk to him.”

“You and Luffy joining forces or something?”

“If that’s what it takes. He says you’ve been fucking miserable since it happened. Go talk to your cook, what’s the worst that can happen?”

It wasn’t the shoe-shaped bruise on his ribs, that was holding Zoro back. “Told you. He doesn’t want to see me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty damn sure.”

“So it’s not just your inability to wind down your pride a notch, that’s stopping you?”

Zoro shot Ace a hard look. “ _Fuck_ you.”

“Hey.” Ace’s voice got an equally angry edge to it. “I don’t know what made you two fall out. But I _do_ know, if you don’t find some way to put it back together with him, you’re going to regret it. A guy like Sanji isn’t gonna walk into your life twice. Fix your shit.”

The swordsman tilted his bottle of beer, draining it with a few hard, angry swallows. Then he thumped the empty bottle down on the counter. Before walking out of the kitchen without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey: it's Everybody Pile On Zoro Week.
> 
> Thanks for all your feedback. I 'preciate it big time, as always. And yeah: Zoro is getting it from all directions right now. I promise the agony is almost over.*
> 
> ...And I have wanted to make Shanks a musician/DJ since I saw some fanart of him in that guise: bad boy with a microphone. I can't find the original fanart, Wahhh, if any of you can source it please let me know. His character is also based on the amazing Aussie DJ Hookie, who gave a great TED talk about being a DJ with two prosthetic arms (he also has prosthetic legs). Cool dude, who when asked by kids who see him "Are you a pirate?" always replies, "Yeah." His TED talk is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQhB8R27DsI
> 
> * The eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed the total chapter count for this fic has just jumped from 16 to 18. This is what happens if editing occurs when I'm tired. It was always 18 chapters, I just... kind of... somehow... numbered two chapters 15, and two chapters 16. *Ducks and covers head with arms* Please don't be angry with the sleepy fic writer.


	15. Getting Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All right.” Zeff cleared his throat. “First: where the hell are you buying your ingredients? The amount you’re paying for them, I could run my entire restaurant on.”
> 
> “I check out local markets, shop around.” Sanji felt instantly on the defensive. “I try to get good deals.”
> 
> “Bullshit. Your costs are way too high. Why aren’t you getting stuff direct from wholesalers?”
> 
> “Because I don’t want to cut corners on quality.”
> 
> “I taught you better than that.” Zeff sounded exasperated. “If the quality of what you’re selling customers isn’t good enough, you look at how you’re cooking it – not just at what you’re putting into it. Basic chef know-how. Find a good local wholesaler and talk to them about what you need. You need to cut those costs in half.”
> 
> “Whatever. I’ll try.” Sanji felt his stress levels starting to climb.
> 
> “Don’t try, eggplant – just do it.” Zeff’s voice whiplashed back at him. “Goddamnit, do you want to make your business work or not?”

* * *

_I've got to admit it's getting better (Better)  
A little better all the time (It can't get no worse)_

_\- The Beatles_

* * *

It wasn’t far off midnight on Monday when Zeff’s call finally came through. Sanji answered it swiftly, pausing only to grab his cigarettes and lighter. “Hi.”

“Hi, eggplant. Kinda late calling you back... Damn anniversary party ran over, we were still herding ‘em out the door a half hour ago.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for getting back to me tonight.”

“Said I would.” It sounded like Zeff was shifting paperwork about, at the other end. “You got something to write with? You’re gonna need to make some notes.”

“Hang on.” Sanji moved to his desk and grabbed his laptop, opening it and switching it on as he returned to the couch. “Okay.”

“All right.” Zeff cleared his throat. “First: where the hell are you buying your ingredients? The amount you’re paying for them, I could run this entire restaurant on.”

“I check out local markets, shop around.” Sanji felt instantly on the defensive. “I try to get good deals.”

“Bullshit. Your costs are way too high. Why aren’t you getting stuff direct from wholesalers?”

“Because I don’t want to cut corners on quality.”

“I taught you better than that.” Zeff sounded exasperated. “If the quality of what you’re selling customers isn’t good enough, you look at how you’re cooking it – not just at what you’re putting into it. Basic chef know-how. Find a good local wholesaler and talk to them about what you need. You need to cut those costs in half.”

“Whatever. I’ll try.” Sanji felt his stress levels starting to climb.

“Don’t _try_ , eggplant – just do it.” Zeff’s voice whiplashed back at him. “Goddamnit, do you want to make your business work or not?”

Shutting his eyes, Sanji gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’ll _do_ it.”

“Good. Next: you really need to be spending the amount you do on take-out packaging?”

“It’s all biodegradable.”

“Swell. Is your priority saving the planet, or saving your business?”

“There’s not a whole lot of point me having a business if the planet I live on is fucked,” Sanji retorted.

“Holy shit. You been hanging out with eco warriors? Do I need to get up there and de-program you?”

“Listen, crap geezer: customers like to feel good about the food they buy. Biodegradable packaging is an up-and-coming thing, and one day soon it’s going to be mandatory. Skip to the next item on your list.”

“Damn brat.” Zeff huffed on the other end of the line. “You really want my help, or not?”

Sanji opened his eyes again. Took a deep breath. Forced his voice, when he next spoke, to come out evenly. “I wouldn’t have called you and asked you, if I didn’t.”

There was a short pause. At last Zeff spoke again. “Okay. Just checking.”

It was well after midnight before they got to the end of the call. Sanji had typed up a long to-do list, as well as agreeing with Zeff exactly how much he needed to be paid into his bank account, and when. “Okay. I think I’ve got everything... Thanks, crap geezer.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll set up that first repayment to you to go out end of next month.”

“Make sure you’ve got enough in your bank account to cover it, first.” Zeff said this shortly. “No point me bailing you out this time, if you dig yourself into another hole four weeks down the line.”

“I’ll cover it. Don’t worry.”

“That better not mean you working seven days a week, brat,” the old chef snapped back at him. “I meant what I said the other night.”

“Yeah. I got it. Work-life balance: check.”

A heavy sigh came down the phone line. “Goddamnit. The omniscience of youth... Wait till you’re my age.”

“Yeah, that’s really something to look forward to.”

“Okay, eggplant. Both of us need our beauty sleep, so let’s skip the insults. Give me a call end of the week, let me know how you’re getting on.”

“I will do. And again: thanks. This really means a lot to me.”

“Just turn this thing around.” Zeff growled this. “I’m getting too long in the tooth to be lying awake at night worrying about you. Speak soon, kid.”

“Yeah. Bye, crap geezer.”

After hanging up, Sanji closed his laptop and finished his smoke: then headed to bed, switching off the lights as he went.

Lying in the darkness he felt weird. Tired, sure; and many of the things Zeff and he had talked about circulating in his brain. But his body and mind felt – strange.

It took him a while to figure out what it was. Then he realised: for the first time in weeks, the tight clench of anxiety in his chest and stomach had released its grip. He didn’t exactly feel good – there was still plenty to do in the next few days to preoccupy him, and his business wasn’t out of the woods yet – but the sickening feeling of doom that had been hanging over him for so long, had lifted.

Sanji released a long, long breath. Then closed his eyes and slept.

The next day he texted Nami during a quiet spell at _Bite Me_ , to give her the good news. _‘Zeff & me figured things out last night. Hes going to help me cover the bills.’_

Nami’s reply landed within half a minute, as a stream of cheering emojis. Another text from her swiftly followed it. _‘Gr8 so pleased for u hon xxxxxx’_

Smiling, Sanji typed another message. _‘He also read me the riot act. Felt like I was 12 yrs old again.’_

_‘I bet :D Worth it?‘_

_‘Yeah guess so.’_

_‘Told u :P Now u can concentrate on doing what yr best at: cooking.’_

_‘You casting aspersions at my business acumen?’_

_‘Not yr fault u creative types suck at numbers. Luckily u have my genius skills 2 back u up.’_

_‘I am nothing without you <3 <3 <3’_

_‘Damn str8 !!!’_

_‘I worship at your feet, my gorgeous goddess. Dinner at mine Fri eve? I promise not to talk work.”_

_‘Deal. C u then hon xxx’_

_‘You are forever the light in my life. Have a good week my angel xxxxx’_

Sanji finished their message thread with a string of hearts and flowers, before stowing his phone away in his pocket with a smile.

It was late in the afternoon and the chef was taking a quick smoke break outside and thinking about wiping down the stall counters, when a familiar cheery whistle made him look around.

“Yo! Finished for the day?” Usopp’s smiling face peered round the edge of the stall.

“Just about.” Sanji took a final pull on his cigarette, before stubbing it out. “Good to see you.”

“Likewise.” The artist high-fived him, before stepping back. “How’s business?”

“Looking up. Usual?” Sanji was already stepping inside, reaching for the fridge to start making the chilled mocha the artist loved.

Clearing his throat stagily, Usopp made a show of laying a five dollar bill on the counter. “A- _hem_. Only if I can pay my way.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “I thought we agreed: it’s on the house. It’s the least I can do.”

“As of now, I hereby declare our agreement null and void.” Usopp folded his arms across his chest, and assumed a determined pose. “I’m a proud man of the world: Usopp does not freeload off his friends. These are my final terms. Feed me in exchange for fair amounts of cashy money, or I shall be forced to take my custom elsewhere.” And he glared at the chef unconvincingly.

Feeling a warm lift in his chest, Sanji couldn’t stop the smile breaking over his face. “...Okay. If you insist.”

A look of relief transformed the artist’s expression; he sagged forward and draped himself over the counter. “Thank fuck for that. This place is my unofficial second home, y’know?” He picked up the five dollar bill and waggled it at the chef. “Take it, already.”

Sanji took the money and made a performance of placing it in his cashbox. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Not another word!” Usopp mimed zipping his lips. “And keep the change.”

Smilingly shaking his head, Sanji put the necessary coins on the counter before starting to fix his friend’s drink. “Here. Give it to a homeless charity, if you don’t want it.”

“You are a prince among chefs,” the artist proclaimed. “I feel like extra whipped cream today.”

“Coming right up.”

Once the iced mocha was on the counter and Usopp had taken his first appreciative sip, he eyed the chef. “You seem more... on the up, than last week.”

“I am.” Sanji began stacking away condiments from the front counter. “I talked with my old man over the weekend. Long story short, he’s gonna help me work through my cash flow problems.”

“Wow: that’s great.” Usopp leaned on one elbow on the counter, hoovering whipped cream from his drink. “That must be a load off your mind.”

“Oh yeah,” replied Sanji feelingly. “Feel like I can breathe for the first time in weeks. And what’s more important – I can pay you now, for that artwork you did.”

Making a dismissive gesture with one hand, the artist slurped a mouthful of mocha. “Whenever, dude. No hurry. You must have higher priority bills to pay than me.”

“You’re my friend. It doesn’t get higher priority than that.”

“I’m touched.” Usopp placed one hand over his heart. “And embarrassed. Pay me sometime next month. It’s all good.” He gave the chef a big smile.

The warm feeling in Sanji’s chest swelled, making him swallow a sudden tightness in his throat. “Thanks, Usopp.”

“Are you kidding? Thank _you_.” Usopp gestured at Bite Me. “My nutritional habits have been boosted like, five million per cent, since you set up this place. I sometimes _dream_ about your food.” He looked up at the chef, and made a hasty gesture. “In a totally non-sexy way, obviously.”

Letting out a laugh, Sanji leaned on the counter. “Of course.” He winked at the artist. “Though, have to say: you’re missing a trick.”

“Ah, hmm, right.” Usopp eyed him. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Relax.” Sanji patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll always be like a brother to me.”

“Okay. Good.” Usopp appeared to consider this. “So you don’t think I’m hot?”

“You’re cute.” The chef nodded approvingly. “But I don’t go for straight guys.”

Falling to sipping at his iced mocha, Usopp fell silent for a few moments. Before he twirled his straw in his drink; tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the counter... Then eventually spoke up. “Just asking, so tell me to butt out if you don’t want to answer; but, uh... Did you and Zoro actually break up? Or are you just taking a time-out?”

Sanji blinked. And took a few seconds before answering. Usopp registered his hesitation and hastily shook his head, waving one hand in apology. “Sorry, none of my business. Forget I asked.”

“No. It’s okay.” Sanji lowered his gaze for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he looked back up at his friend. “Did Zoro say something to you about it?”

“Ah, not much.” Usopp scratched his head. “It was Luffy let it slip.”

“Luffy?” Sanji frowned.

_Who else knows?_

Usopp saw the frown, and hastened to smooth things out. “It wasn’t a big thing - like, we’re not all talking about it behind your back or shit like that. In case you were wondering.”

“Mm-hm.” Sanji kept his response minimal.

“I feel bad though.” Usopp’s shoulders hunched up with discomfort. “I mean, that I didn’t know. I probably said all kinds of stuff to you about Zoro, ‘cos I didn’t know you guys were – But now I know, I just feel bad, ‘cos _you’re_ probably feeling bad. Or, uh... Okay, maybe you don’t want to talk about this, huh? Shutting up now.”

Sanji let out a sigh. Then managed to give his friend a small smile. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. It was... Well, my head’s been kind of fried, the last couple weeks. I haven’t really wanted to talk about it with anyone.”

“Totally get it, man.” Usopp nodded understandingly. “It’s cool.”

“No. It’s kind of fucked.” The catch of tightness was back in Sanji’s throat again: he breathed through it. “It’s okay you guys know, though.”

“Hey, my listening ear is permanently available.” Usopp slapped himself on the chest. “And I am the soul of discretion. Unlike Luffy, who got his ass whooped by Zoro for comin’ out with it in front of me.”

“Zoro beat Luffy up?” Sanji felt his stomach lurch a little.

“No, not even... Those two fight like a married couple: Luffy gives as good as he gets. No harm done,” Usopp proclaimed cheerfully. “The way I figure it, anyone else but Zoro sharing a place with Luffy would’ve tried to kill him several times over by now.”

The chef was frowning. Not liking the idea of the fall-out his and Zoro’s situation was inevitably producing in their group of friends. “Great. When things go wrong, he tries fixing it with his fists.” His voice came out harder than he meant it to.

Usopp looked surprised. “Eh, no... Like I said, dude, it wasn’t a big deal.”

Sanji turned away and began stacking containers into the fridge. “Well... I hope Luffy’s okay.”

“He bounced back like nothing ever happened. Same as always.” Usopp sounded like he was trying to mend fences. “Don’t worry. Those two are solid.”

“Good to know.” Sanji tried not to say this sarcastically, but it was hard. Not because he didn’t like Luffy: he did. And the last thing he wanted was for this mess between him and Zoro to spill over into the rest of their lives: it was a bad enough car crash between the two of them, without involving innocent bystanders.

He felt Usopp's words land hard inside him. The stress of dealing with _Bite Me's_ financial crisis had taken all his mental, physical and emotional energy for the last two weeks. He’d been keeping everything else firmly in the back of his consciousness, because he didn’t have an alternative. But now that crisis was partially resolved, that left room for the other broken thing in his life to hit him with full force.

“Sanji?” Usopp’s voice sounded worried. “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t’ve said anything. You okay?”

Taking a deep breath; then straightening his shoulders and summoning a crooked smile onto his face, Sanji turned back to face his friend. “Yeah. Y’know: crappy, but okay.”

The artist gave him a wry smile of sympathy in return. “I hear you, dude.” He hesitated for a moment, then added: “In case you were wondering... Think he’s feeling totally crappy, too.”

Sanji couldn’t separate from the mess of feelings inside him whether that felt bad, or good. He settled for answering with a single non-committal nod, before beginning to wipe down the counter.

After a brief silence between the two of them, Usopp slid his empty cup back across the counter and made a tactful effort to change topic. “Eh... Once again my tastebuds are doing the happy dance. Mere thanks are insufficient but have ‘em anyway.” And he gave the chef a wink and an emphatic thumbs-up.

“ _De rien_.” Sanji made a little bow.

“I’m really glad your old man’s helping you out, dude. Things’ll take turn for the good, you’ll see.” The artist beamed. “College term’ll start before too long, and I’ll make sure all those freshers know where they can come to get the best food in town!”

“Thanks.” Sanji leaned back against the worktop behind him, smiling too. “That’d be great.”

“This eating establishment scores a maximum Five Usopp Stars, for its winning combination of snappy service, mouth-watering cuisine, value for money and laid-back ambience. You heard it here first: _Bite Me_ is the place for the discerning college student to be seen, this fall.” He gave the chef a salute. “Usopp’s Cast-Iron Guarantee.”

“Duly noted.” Sanji nodded seriously. “I’ll make sure I’m ready for the meteoric rise in customers.”

“Allll riiiight!” The artist punched the air. “Onwards and upwards.”

 _Hope so._ Thinking about Zeff’s to-do list he had to tackle between now and then, Sanji gave a small sigh. _One day at a time, huh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More gratuitous Usopp-being-a-great-friend-and-all-round-awesome-human-being. <3
> 
> Short chapter... Will post the next one soon as. Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and comments! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Translation note:  
> De rien = Don't mention it / It's nothing


	16. Mess It Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoro took exactly the space of one breath in and one breath out to wind his control up a notch. Then he spoke, in a voice that was quiet but hard. “Nami... I’m asking you if Sanji is all right. Give me an answer.”
> 
> She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes dark. Then her mouth tightened, before she answered: “He’s dealing.”
> 
> That didn’t exactly have the ringing sound of positivity about it. “What does that mean?”
> 
> “It means he’s getting on with his life, which unsurprisingly you are not a part of.”
> 
> Zoro felt a clench in the pit of his stomach. Something must have showed in his face, because Nami raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to you? Being kicked down the hallway didn’t clue you in?”

* * *

_How am I gonna mess it up, mess it up?  
How am I gonna hold it back, hold it back in?  
How am I gonna fail now, fail now?  
How am I gonna hold it back, hold it back again?_

_\- Man Overboard_

* * *

Zoro’s eyes stung and there was a tight catch in his throat.

_How much longer?_

He turned in his chair and looked down the length of the swimming pool, to where a clock high on the wall told him the good news: 4.45pm. That meant just quarter of an hour longer in this humid purgatory, before his shift was finished and he could escape.

Pool lifeguard duty was boring as hell. The chlorine and overheated atmosphere fucked with his sinuses: sitting breathing in that toxic tropical fug for two hours seldom failed to make him feel like he had a bad case of hay fever.

There was never anything to do, either. The swimmers mostly ploughed back and forth doing their laps without hesitation, so unless someone slipped on the wet floor or collided with another swimmer, Zoro generally spent most of his poolside shift staring at the rocking blue waters and bored out of his skull.

The moment the clock’s minute hand slid onto the number twelve, Zoro stood and climbed down from his lifeguard’s chair, before calling out over the pool: “Okay, folks. Time’s up. Private coaching in the pool now.”

The swimmers stroked or coasted to one end of the pool and clambered out, while Zoro unhooked the floating lane dividers and coiled them into bundles, before stowing them away.

“Thanks, Zoro.” Luke, a fair-haired guy who taught aquarobics and swim coaching, appeared poolside and began getting out individual foam floats. “Busy today.”

“Yeah, kinda.” Zoro dumped the last coil of pool dividers into the storage bin, before getting out of there.

Out in the more breathable air of the gym lobby, Zoro stopped at the reception desk. “Hey, Kelly. Anyone using room nineteen for the next hour?”

The receptionist checked her computer screen. “Nope. You want dibs?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, no problem. Training again?”

“Uh huh.”

“After a ten-hour day here?” She shook her head at him, smiling. “Whew... Sooner you than me.”

When Zoro walked into the small practice room on the gym’s top floor it felt stuffy, as if no-one had been in there all day. He hit the air-con switch before heading over to the open-fronted storage cupboard on the opposite side of the room: where he selected a pair of heavy bag boxing gloves and slid them on, tightening the Velcro straps round his wrists.

Now the gym’s air con had been fixed it was working efficiently. He could feel the cooler air already starting to move against his skin, as he walked to where the heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling on a chain.

He took a few minutes to warm up, jumping jacks followed by shadow boxing. Then he came to stand in front of the heavy black leather punching bag; focused on breathing in and out.

There was a heavy blunted feeling in his chest, that had been with him for days. A feeling like the world was behind layers of padding, nothing getting through to him. It didn’t stop him working, or doing the things he had to do. But it sat there between him and the rest of the world, like a grey fog, making everything colourless and unreal.

Zoro slowly clenched his hands inside the boxing gloves, gazing at the punchbag.

_Fuck this._

And he fell into stance: stepping in, arms coming up, and began to volley out punches. Starting slow and steady. Focussing on his footwork; on his breathing; on the flow of punch combinations, keeping the blows coming.

As the bag began to swing and dance under his punching, Zoro moved with it. Circling, keeping the distance. Snapping punches off the black leather; each strike landing clean where he wanted to. Timing his breathing, each punch with a short exhaled breath. Starting to feel his muscles grow warm, the sweat come on his skin.

Boxing wasn’t a sport he was into, but sometimes you just needed to hit something.

The heavy punchbag jerked and swung on its chains, creaking as his fists propelled it back and forth. Zoro began throwing some harder punches now: blows that hit the leather with a sharp crack. He’d deliberately chosen boxing gloves that would protect his fingers and wrists, rather than MMA-style gloves. He wanted to be able to hit as hard as he could. Not to hold back.

_C’mon. Fucking c’mon –_

He was immersed in the feel of it now. The swing and connect, the shock of impact travelling up his arms, moving fast on his feet to line himself up again, _jab-jab-crack_ with another flurry of blows. Hitting harder, harder; sweat tracking down his face and neck. Muscles beginning to burn. Getting into the rhythm of it.

Through the grey fog, voices replayed in his head.

_\- If you don’t find some way to put it back together with him, you’re going regret it. A guy like Sanji isn’t gonna walk into your life twice._

Leather impacting against leather, his fists making the punchbag jerk and swing on its chains.

_\- You should go talk to Sanji. Things are tough for him right now, he needs friends._

_\- Yeah well, right now he doesn’t need me._

Just barely there, a soreness in his left side caught like a mild stitch as he swung each volley of blows. His ribs were almost healed, the more recent bruise from the chef’s kick fading too. Pain so minor it hardly even registered: and Zoro was used to pushing through pain.

_\- Go talk to your cook, what’s the worst that can happen?_

_\- He doesn’t want to see me._

_\- You sure about that?_

_\- Yeah. I’m pretty damn sure._

He connected with the punchbag harder, powering each blow home. Trying to shift something, crack open the thing shrouding him. But it was like punching smoke: nothing made the heavy greyness lift.

_\- So it’s not just your inability to wind down your pride a notch, that’s stopping you?_

That scene in the chef’s hallway replayed in Zoro’s head for maybe the hundredth time. Sanji stepping away sideways, before lashing out with the kick that had thrown Zoro against the opposite wall. Their bitter argument, before that.

_\- Don’t put me in the same category as that skank - I didn’t sell my ass to get by._

\- _Right, I forgot. You just used to beat people senseless for money, so you could get your shitty junkie ass wasted on drugs. Of course, that makes you a total fucking prince by comparison._

Sanji, firing back his answer with venom. And what rose up in Zoro’s mind were Bayani’s words, from all those years ago.

_\- Fucking is like fighting._

That woman outside _Bite Me_ who Zoro had called a whore sold her body for cash. As a teenager Zoro had used his body to inflict damage on others, while people paid to watch. She fucked for money. How was himself fighting for money any different?

Sanji now considered Zoro bad news, seemed like. Which shouldn’t be such a big surprise, after all the shitty revelations the swordsman had come out with, a couple months back.

_Was he just waiting for an opportunity to bail?_

If the chef was pissed about something, he didn’t usually have a problem expressing himself. But Zoro’s fucked-up past wasn’t the only problem Sanji was dealing with right now: his business threatening to go under had been front and centre for weeks. Zoro was only too aware of this, having been watching his boyfriend work himself ragged for most of the summer.

_Not like I was much fucking help there, either._

He remembered Usopp’s words.

_\- Sanji couldn’t work any harder, that’s for sure. Looked totally wiped when I saw him last week._

His fists smashed against the punchbag, pushing its weight away. And Zoro could keep on hitting it till the thing split its seams, try to punch through this dark grey fog, and precisely nothing would change. The chef was sweating blood trying to make _Bite Me_ break even: but he didn’t want Zoro’s help.

_\- Just go away._

Sanji had effectively cut Zoro out of his life. Calls and messages were blocked: Zoro had resorted to email, but had gotten no reply. He’d even thought about turning up at _Bite Me_ ; but the chances of that ending well were remote. Even if Sanji didn’t kick him across the street, Zoro turning stalker on his boyfriend wasn’t exactly going to win him any favours.

With each blow the chef’s voice echoed through his mind.

_Fucker_

_Neanderthal_

_Psycho_

He lost track of how long he’d been in the practice room, throwing punches. Sweat tracking down his face: stinging his eyes. His arms began to feel heavy, muscles starting to tire.

_Hell with this._

At last Zoro stepped back; let the punchbag swing until it slowly came to rest. Released a long, hard breath.

_- Fix your shit._

Ace’s angry instruction hung in his mind like a sharp barbed hook. Whichever way he turned, he got caught on it. Because he had no fucking idea of how to fix it. Or if there was even anything left to fix.

Slowly unstrapping the boxing gloves, Zoro slid them off. Stowed them away in the storage cupboard, before wiping his face and neck with the gym towel he’d brought with him. Picked up his water bottle and drank down long, hard swallows, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

It came to him, suddenly: that this room was where he and Sanji had fought. That evening back in January, their first date. Sparring, taking each other down. Talking over dinner at the Lebanese restaurant. Going back to Sanji’s place after, and fucking till the early hours of the morning.

Zoro found himself clenching his fists on the towel, pulling it tight against the back of his neck. Suddenly swept with a physical memory of how Sanji felt. How he sounded. The smell and taste of his skin.

A hollow ache filled the pit of his stomach: climbed up into his chest.

_Fuck. Enough._

He headed out of the practice space and down to the locker room and showers.

It was evening by the time Zoro walked down the stairs to the gym reception, bag slung over one shoulder. His mind was still occupied by the same spiralling thoughts, so he’d taken a step into the reception foyer before something made him stop.

There at the reception desk, a familiar flame-orange head. Nami with her back to him, talking to Kelly, the gym receptionist.

_The fuck - ?_

Zoro’s first thought was that Nami was making a complaint. The redhead was shaking her head at whatever the receptionist was saying to her. After a brief exchange Nami turned away from the counter and made swiftly for the exit, disappearing outside.

Zoro headed to the desk himself. “Uh, I just saw my - friend, Nami, talking with you. Everything okay?”

Kelly glanced up from her screen, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, she’s just returned her membership card. Asking for a refund.” The receptionist shrugged. “I told her we could only refund for the full month she hasn’t used yet. She was kind of snippy about it.”

Hitching the strap of his gym bag more securely over his shoulder, Zoro turned away. “Thanks.” And followed in Nami’s wake.

Outside on the street he couldn’t spot her for a few seconds. Then he saw a flash of orange: Nami walking away, threading between other passers-by.

Zoro sped up in pursuit. Not thinking about what he was doing, why he was doing it, just closing the distance. Nami was striding along determinedly and had almost reached the corner of the street before Zoro got close enough to call out. Loudly, to be heard over the noise of street traffic.

“Oi – Nami!”

She paused, turning to look back over her shoulder. A slight frown on her face morphed instantly into something darker. “Un-fucking- _believable_.” She turned away with a hiss of breath and started walking away, faster.

“Wait \- ” Zoro accelerated too, catching up and putting his hand on her shoulder.

Nami reacted like a striking snake, whipping around and slamming her elbow into him with full force. Her blow went home under Zoro’s upraised arm, finding almost the exact same spot Sanji’s kick had landed two weeks earlier.

“Get your hand off me, dickhead.” Nami’s voice was low and deadly.

Zoro caught his breath, his arm dropping to his side; and wondered if he was destined to spend half his life being hit by people he was trying to talk to. “Just wait up a moment and listen - ”

“You have absolutely nothing to say that I give a shit about hearing.” Nami turned away.

“Is Sanji okay?”

Where those words had come from, Zoro didn’t know. But Nami slowly turned back to face him, her face bearing a stony expression. “Little late for you to be worrying about that.”

Zoro met her angry gaze with his own. “Is he okay?”

“What do you think?” she responded bitterly. “You prize asshole. Why are you asking me?”

The swordsman clenched his jaw. “Because he won’t take my calls. And I can’t go round his place.”

Nami got a slightly grim smile on her face. “Yeah, I heard you got your ass kicked the hell out of there. Wish I’d seen it.”

Taking a deep breath, Zoro kept his anger leashed in. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You deserved more than getting your ass kicked. After what you did, you were lucky you walked away afterwards, you fuckwit.” At his frown, Nami nodded. “Oh yeah, Sanji told me what you did. What you said. He should’ve kicked you down the frikkin stairs.”

“I was trying to talk with him.” Zoro was getting tired of this onslaught. “Just like I’m trying to talk with you now.”

“Well, I probably can’t kick you across the street, but I can have a ton of fun trying.” Nami narrowed her eyes. “Plus if you keep on bugging me I will scream for the cops and have you busted for assault.”

Zoro took exactly the space of one breath in and one breath out to wind his control up a notch. Then he spoke, in a voice that was quiet but hard. “Nami... I’m asking you if Sanji is all right. Give me a fucking answer.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes dark. Then her mouth tightened, before she answered: “He’s dealing.”

That didn’t exactly have the ringing sound of positivity about it. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s getting on with his life, which unsurprisingly you are not a part of.”

Zoro felt a clench in the pit of his stomach. Something must have showed in his face, because Nami raised an eyebrow. “That’s news to you? Being kicked down the hallway didn’t clue you in?”

“We had a fight.” Zoro shook his head. “Doesn’t fucking mean it’s all over.” Even as he argued it, he felt dread flower inside him. A hollow feeling, as if he’d stepped forward and the ground wasn’t there.

Nami regarded him for almost half a minute. Some of the scowl cleared from her face. She looked away: Zoro heard her sigh. When she turned back, her expression had changed. It was still angry, but with something else underneath. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

That was something Zoro was ready to admit to. “Maybe if someone explained things to me instead of trying to bust up my ribs, I would.”

“You ever ask Sanji about his past?” The redhead regarded him from under lowered brows.

“Him being adopted, by Zeff?” Zoro nodded. “Some, yeah. It’s not like it comes up often.”

“Wow. Lame.” Nami’s expression soured again. “It didn’t occur to you to, y’know, _ask_ him to talk about it more? As if you actually _gave_ a shit?”

Zoro wanted to argue that one. Except he’d never really questioned Sanji about his history: apart from that one time, the conversation they’d had before going to visit Zeff. Finding out that Sanji had been adopted from some foster home in France, when he was eight. And from then on, that Zeff had brought him up.

Nami folded her arms across her chest. “Right. That’s what I thought. Too busy getting in the sack with him, huh? Or did you just think all that touchy-feely crap was too much trouble?” 

It was getting harder to keep the anger leashed down. “How about you don’t try to get inside my head, witch. You don’t know shit about me, or about how I think.”

“Based on what I’ve seen and heard? I can make an educated guess.” Nami retorted this crisply. “If you really knew Sanji and cared about him, you’d know why this has all blown up in your face. But no: you have _zero_ understanding of what he’s been through in his life, and because of that you hurt him in a way you couldn’t have done more damage if you’d tried. You total fuckwit.” She glared at him. “Not to mention, trying to strong-arm your way into his home. You ever try pulling a stunt like that again, I will _eviscerate_ you. I don’t care how much of a badass gangsta you used to be back in the day, I’m telling you right here and right now: you so much as look at Sanji funny, I will end you.”

He made no response: just looked at her. Not feeling the impact of her threat, but of what else she’d just said.

_\- You hurt him_

Her words sinking into him like stones flung into water: cold ripples circling outwards. And then a second realisation.

_\- How much of a badass gangsta you used to be back in the day_

Zoro’s past. The things he’d shared with Sanji.

_He fucking told her?_

A tight, sick feeling rose in Zoro’s gut. Nami was still glaring at him, but she read from his face that her words had somehow gone home. “Oh, have I rendered you speechless? Good.” A grim smile came onto her face, before she moved to step around him: to walk away.

“...Tell him I’m sorry.” The words broke from Zoro, without realising he was going to say them. Not knowing if sorry _was_ what he felt, as anger fought with something worse. For a moment he thought Nami hadn’t heard him, or was ignoring what he’d said. Then the red-head paused in mid-stride: turned on her heel and fixed him with a look. “What?”

The swordsman met her angry gaze. “Next time you see him. Tell him I’m sorry.”

Nami frowned. “What, you think that’s going to fix things? Dream on, dickhead.”

Zoro gave a heavy shrug. “I’d tell him myself, but I’m the last person he wants to see right now.”

“Oh, you think?” Nami’s reply dripped sarcasm. “What makes you believe I’d pass on any message to him, from you? My best friend was feeling pretty close to rock-bottom: you played a starring role in putting him there. And you want me to go plead your case? Get real.”

“Didn’t ask you to do that. All I’m asking is, tell him I said sorry.”

“Why should I?”

_Because I fucking am_.

Even with all the conflicting tangle of feelings now wrestling in the greyness inside him, Zoro knew this. However the hell this thing had gotten so fucked up between himself and Sanji: he was sorry. Sorry not to be there for the chef now, while Sanji was fighting to save his business. And sorry because without Sanji in it, his own life felt hollow at the centre. Knowing that somehow, he’d brought this down on himself.

_Same old, same old._

He wasn’t about to share all of that with Nami, though. So he settled for saying, “Don’t know how things got so fucked. But tell him I’m sorry, anyway.”

Nami regarded him for long moment, her eyes narrowing. Zoro had the unsettling feeling that her gaze was stripping him bare, uncovering some of what he wasn’t saying.

At last Nami spoke again, and her voice had shed some of its venom. “Hmm... Yeah. You really are, aren’t you.” She studied him, cocking her head to one side. “Y’know, if you’d kept your big stupid mouth shut in the first place, you wouldn’t have caused this mess.”

“You gonna pass on my message to him, or not?” Zoro demanded, tired of their verbal duelling.

“The message being just, ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Yeah.”

“And if his reply is, ‘Go fuck yourself’?” Nami’s eyes were challenging.

“Then... Guess you were right. I should’ve kept my mouth shut in the first place.” Zoro gave her a smile that had no humour in it at all. “Will you tell him?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Nami let out a huff. “I’ll pass on your message to him.” She gave him a hard stare. “But I meant what I said: you give Sanji any more grief, I will strangle you with my bare hands.” And with that she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away.

Zoro watched her go. Then released a heavy breath; before heading for home himself.

* * * * * * * * *

It was almost time to close up _Bite Me_ , after a long warm Friday. There had been a steady trickle of customers throughout the day and there was less unused food to deal with than there had been of late. Sanji put whatever could be reused in the freezer and refrigerator; parcelled up the rest in a couple of carriers to take to the homeless shelter; and began his end-of-day clean up.

“Too late for a crêpe, huh?” A familiar voice sounded behind him. Sanji turned from where he’d been tying up a garbage sack, to see Nami leaning on the counter, smiling at him.

“Ah, _chérie!_ Good to see you!” Sanji gave his hands a quick wash at the sink, before stepping over and bestowing a kiss on her cheek. “I’m just clearing up... But I can make you something, no problem. Sweet or savoury?”

“Forget it, I was just messing with you. I don’t need feeding right this moment.” Nami made a dismissive gesture. “Had a good day?”

“Okayish.” Sanji looked over at his till. “Haven’t cashed up yet, but I think it’s been a better week.”

“Good.” Nami nodded approvingly. “How about your outgoings? You managed to get the goddamn leasing agents off your back?”

“Paid the repair invoice.” The chef made a wry face. “Handing over that much cash to those fuckers was not fun.”

“I bet.” His friend grimaced. “Well, at least it’s done with. Forget ‘em. Just concentrate on doing what you do best: cooking delish food. You got any catering work this weekend?”

“Kids’ birthday party in the ‘burbs, tomorrow. Afternoon job, so I can get it prepped in the morning and I’ve got the evening free.”

Nami planted her chin in her hand and gave him a smile. “And Sunday too, I hope.”

“Yeah, I guess... Why? You want to come over for dinner?”

“Hard to refuse, but nope: that isn’t what I meant. Just checking you were actually gonna have some downtime this weekend.”

“Chef’s honour.” Sanji held up a spatula in solemn salute. “Sunday I plan to sleep in and then probably chill out the rest of the day. Catch up on some podcasts.”

“Ideal.” She nodded approvingly. “You were seriously in danger of becoming a dull boy.”

“Don’t worry, I already got the work-life balance lecture from Zeff.” Sanji stowed the spatula away. “Along with a whole bunch of other stuff to add to my to-do list.”

“On this one your dad’s talking sense, for once.” Nami tapped on the counter with one finger. “No more of this 24/7 bullshit. If you don’t look after yourself, everything goes to hell.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sanji opened the freezer and delved inside it, before plonking a small plastic tub and a spoon on the counter in front of her. “Try this.”

His friend eyed the tub of frozen foodstuff narrowly. “What is it?”

“Chocolate and coconut kulfi. I’m trying out a new flavour.”

Nami regarded the tub, then picked up the spoon. “You are _so_ changing the subject.”

Quarter of an hour or so later Sanji was done with wiping down surfaces and packing away, and Nami was sucking her spoon clean. She put it in the empty tub and pushed them across the counter. “Yes.”

“What?”

“New flavour: yes, emphatically.” She sighed. “Any chance I can work as your recipe taster full time, once you get rich and famous?”

“Wouldn’t have anyone else.”

“Great. Let’s get the paperwork drawn up. It’s good to plan these things ahead of time.”

Sanji picked up the tub and spoon, washed them up and stacked them to dry. “You want to go for a coffee somewhere, once I’ve shut up shop?”

“Are you kidding? After what you just fed me, anything else is gonna taste like crap.” Nami stuck out her tongue. “No; thanks though, hon. I need to get on home. Got a tour itinerary in Laos I need to firm up tonight so I can email it out to some clients.”

“What was that you were telling me about downtime?” The chef smiled at her.

“I’m only working tonight. Hopefully. ‘Nother time we can do coffee, okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it, sweetheart. It’s lovely to see you, even if it’s just been a fleeting visit.”

“Hmm, yeah.” Nami’s gaze suddenly shifted to the counter, her mouth settling into a line. “Well... This wasn’t entirely a social call. I also needed to drop by to pass on a message.”

“Oh?” Sanji, propping himself against the counter. “From Usopp? I saw him earlier in the week, he came by to shoot the breeze.”

“No. Not from Usopp.”

Something in his best friend’s tone made Sanji grow uneasy. He looked at Nami: her downcast gaze, a small frown dug in between her brows. “...Okay. You want to tell me who?”

Frowning a little more, Nami sighed, then looked up at him. “From Zoro.”

What filled Sanji then was hard to name. “Oh.” This ambiguous monosyllable was all he could manage.

Nami watched him soberly. “You don’t want me to say any more, we can forget I ever mentioned it.”

“No. That’s... okay.” Sanji found himself reaching for his cigarettes; lighting one up. _Fuck food hygiene regs._ “Uh. When did you talk to him?”

“Last week. Ran into him on the street, outside that goddamn gym he works at.” At Sanji’s questioning look, Nami clarified further. “I was returning that pass he gave me for my birthday.”

Managing a smile, Sanji shook his head. “Don’t feel like you have to do that. Whatever’s gone down with Zoro and me, my friends don’t have to take sides.”

“Bullshit,” Nami retorted succinctly. “I know whose side I’m on. And it’s only because you told me not to go after his ass that I didn’t push him under a moving vehicle.”

“Well, good. I guess.” Sanji tried to keep things light. “In front of witnesses, anyway.”

“I did however tell him a few home truths.” Nami said this grimly. “After he asked how you were.”

Something twisted in Sanji’s chest. “What did you tell him?”

“What he needed to hear. That you’re dealing, and he’s a total asshole.”

Drawing on his cigarette, the chef gave a quick grimace. “...Ah.”

Nami gave a quick snort. “I did restrain myself from committing homicide in our little encounter. Which took some effort.”

“Uh huh.” The confused mess of feelings in Sanji’s chest didn’t get any clearer. “So... Uh... What was the message he wanted you to give me?”

The corner of Nami’s mouth pulled wryly inwards. “He asked me to tell you he’s sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yep.” Nami spread her hands. “Okay, I’m done. Message delivered.”

“He said he was sorry?” Sanji was trying to digest this. “For what, exactly?”

“He didn’t specify.” Nami shrugged.

To buy himself thinking time, Sanji exhaled smoke slowly. Frowning as he tried to figure this out.

_Zoro said he was sorry?_

It wasn’t a concept that came readily into his brain.

_Huh._

Nami was watching him. After a few moments, she said in a carefully casual voice, “Well, I better head on home. Itineraries for rich travellers don’t organise themselves. Call me, Monday?”

The chef connected back with the here and now, and gave his friend an apologetic smile. “Of course.”

“Let me know how your weekend went. “ Nami smiled back at him, but her brown eyes held his.

“I will.” Sanji leaned across the counter and kissed her softly on the cheek. “Have a good one yourself, _chérie_. And thank you.”

“Mm-hmm.” She patted his hand, before turning and walking away.


	17. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short pause, then Sanji’s text question landed on Zoro's phone.
> 
> \- U busy today?
> 
> Zoro’s eyes widened slightly, before he typed a reply.
> 
> \- No. Why?
> 
> Sanji’s answer came instantly.
> 
> \- Think we need to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Non-graphic description of fatal violence.

* * *

_You think you are complicated  
Don’t worry so am I_

_\- Ellegarden_

* * *

Zoro worked an extra shift on Saturday, but Sunday morning he was able to sleep in late: surfacing only when an empty stomach and a need for coffee drove him out of bed.

He came out the shower and towelled himself dry in his room, yawning as he pulled on a pair of pants, scrubbing at his damp hair and considering what to do with the day. Not knowing exactly how long he’d slept or how much of the day actually remained, he picked up his phone from his desk and checked the screen. The time read 10:47... Then his eye was caught by an on-screen notification below the time.

_MESSAGES 53m ago_

**_Shit Cook_ **

_\- Hey._

Blinking at the screen, Zoro stood still for a moment, towel clenched in his hand. Then he walked over to his bed and sat down, thumb swiping over the screen to open the message up. It filled the screen, and he blinked again as he realised that was all there was to it: just that one word.

_\- Hey._

A frown pulled his brows together. After a few seconds, he tentatively typed in a reply: erased it and rewrote several different versions, before finally going with:

_\- Hi, cook._

Zoro waited after sending it but nothing much happened, so he dug out a clean t-shirt and put it on. He was debating whether to go make some coffee, when his phone dinged again to signal a reply had landed.

This time Sanji’s message was less ambiguous.

_\- Just woke up?_

Frowning again, Zoro typed an answer.

_\- Yeah._

A short pause, then the chef’s next question landed.

_\- U busy today?_

Zoro’s eyes widened slightly.

_\- No. Why?_

Sanji’s answer came instantly.

_\- Think we need to talk._

That had the ring of doom about it. But leaving things as they were was a headfuck anyway, so Zoro didn’t hesitate to reply.

_\- Yeah._

His finger paused over the phone keyboard, then he added,

_\- Nami talk to you?_

_\- Yes. Got your message._

There was a gap of almost a minute when nothing happened, then Sanji’s next text landed.

_\- Meet 2pm, café in the park. OK?_

_\- OK._

_\- C u there._

And that was it. No more messages. After waiting for almost ten minutes, Zoro came to the conclusion that he might as well go eat some breakfast. Except that now he had zero appetite.

There was still coffee, and he made it strong and black and drank mug after mug, sitting on the couch gazing into space and trying to figure out what might happen next.

Luffy was evidently out and about, so the apartment was uncharacteristically quiet. Right now the swordsman could have used a little distraction, but instead there was only the by-now-familiar snarl of his own tangled thoughts.

When it got too loud inside his head, Zoro drained his third mug of coffee and set it down with a thud on the table... Before moving to kneel on the floor in seiza. Resting his hands on his thighs, then finding a point in front of him for his eyes to gaze at. Turning his attention to his breath: focusing on the out-breath, releasing into it. Finding that balance between being totally aware, and letting go of everything. Except the present moment.

Into the silence, all the things Sanji had called him arose once again and clamoured in his mind.

_\- You psycho_

He couldn’t make the thoughts go away. That wasn’t how this worked. You had to just make a space, for all of it to be there.

_\- Shitty junkie_

He remembered the look on Sanji’s face, after the chef had kicked him. Nami’s expression, as she was giving him hell.

_\- I don’t care how much of a badass gangsta you used to be back in the day_

Some of the Buddhist books Koshiro had lent Zoro talked about something called equanimity. Which meant, as far as Zoro had figured out, being okay with whatever life dealt you. Not trying to cling onto the good things: not pushing away the bad shit. Letting everything come and go, not getting bent out of shape about what happened: because nothing was going to stick around permanently anyway, so you might as well get used to it.

_Make a space. Breathe in, breathe out. Let things come, and let things go._

Being a good kendōka meant being able to find that space inside yourself. Inside your head. Not getting spun when some asshole came at you like a ninja. Not losing your cool when the shinpan gave your opponent a point he hadn’t earned. Being able to get hit bad and feel the pain and breathe through it, let it become part of the space you were in.

There were some things in Zoro’s life he would gladly have let go of forever, yet they returned again and again. And now there was something in his life he wasn’t ready to let go of: and that was just too bad, because maybe this thing was going to let go of him.

_Breathe through it. Make a space._

Back straight, eyes gazing in front of him, Zoro held mokuso. Because that was one thing his kendo training had taught him: how you prepared for whatever was coming.

The park was busy with people on the sunny summer’s afternoon: kids running about shrieking, couples wandering, dog walkers callng their pets; old people soaking up the warmth on benches, and teens roosting in raucous groups on the grass. Zoro skirted them all and headed for the café.

When he reached the low building with its cluster of outdoor tables, the place was rammed with people evidently seizing the opportunity to eat Sunday lunch out in the fresh air. Zoro skirted the edge of the crowded dining area, wondering if the chef had chosen this place as a meet-up because he wanted to eat as well as talk.

When he finally spotted Sanji, however, the cook was sitting at an outlying table with nothing in front of him but a coffee cup, gazing across the park. Zoro crossed the intervening space and came to a halt by the table. “Hey.”

Sanji looked round as if he’d been roused from thought; blinked; then gave an unconvincing half-smile of greeting. “Oh. Hi.”

Zoro nodded at the crowded café. “Lucky you were able find a table. This place is packed out again.”

“...Yeah.” Sanji also glanced at the other lunchtime customers. “Guess it is pretty busy.”

“You ordered food?”

“No. Just coffee.” The chef pushed his empty coffee cup away a little. “Which I’m done with... Did you want to get something?”

Zoro shrugged. “Already ate at home.” Which he hadn’t, but they weren’t here to dine out: he’d sooner cut to the chase.

“Okay.” Sanji nodded. “In that case... Shall we walk on a bit, find somewhere quieter? There’re benches over that way.”

“Whatever.”

They walked for maybe five minutes before finding an unoccupied park bench in the shade of a lofty plane tree. They sat down at either end of the bench, Sanji fishing out his cigarettes and lighting one up with a smoky sigh. “Mmh... Banning smoking in outdoor cafés really is overkill.”

“Guess people eating near you might disagree.”

“Hah, do they ever.” Sanji took another hit on his cigarette, eyes narrowing. “Gonna need a permit to light up within city limits, one of these days.”

Zoro regarded the chef levelly. Wondering why the other man was deliberately skirting round the topic they were both here to get into. There was a brief but very silent silence; then Sanji flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette and met the swordsman’s gaze. “Thanks for agreeing to meet up.”

“Figured you were right. We need to talk.” Zoro didn’t see any point in beating round the bush.

“Yeah,” Sanji agreed. Before lapsing back into silence for another awkward half minute or so.

Taking the initiative, Zoro ventured an opener. “Surprised you messaged me.”

Sanji inhaled smoke, before responding. “Wasn’t sure you’d answer.”

Zoro frowned. “You’re the one said you didn’t want to talk with me.” He didn’t mention the being-kicked-into-a-wall thing, but knew they were both thinking of it.

“Yeah. Needed some thinking time.” Sanji said this assertively, again meeting the swordsman’s gaze with his own. “And some space.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro nodded.

“Nami was talking with me, end of the week. Told me she’d seen you.” Sanji’s gaze was steady. “What you’d said to her.”

Zoro recalled that acrimonious conversation with Nami all too well. Wondered exactly how much the redhead had related to her friend. “Yeah... We ran into each other outside the gym.”

“She said. She also said you had something to tell me.”

The swordsman had guessed this was coming. “Yeah.”

“Want to say it in person?” Sanji’s eyes were hard. “Now you’ve got an opportunity.”

“I’m sorry, cook.” Zoro spoke without hesitation. And waited to see what would come next.

The chef pinned him with an angry stare, then shook his head. “You _should_ be sorry.” His voice hardened. “All that poison you spewed out... You got any idea what you sounded like? One of those unreconstructed misogynist assholes who talks toxic crap about women. It was fucking horrible.”

Zoro took a slow breath. And didn’t make any comment. Sanji jabbed his cigarette towards the swordsman. “All that – that slut-shaming _bullshit_ you came out with. Is that what you think of women?”

“No.” The swordsman frowned.

“Then why the hell did you say it?” The chef glared at him. “And the shitty way you _acted_ towards Kelsey. She’d done nothing wrong, and you threatened her and drove her away – I haven’t seen her since, she must have been totally freaked out by what you did.” His jaw clenched. “You were a total asshole.”

“I didn’t threaten her.”

“Oh: she was just overwhelmed by the force of your personality?” Sanji said this acidly. “That’s bullshit. I saw her just before she left, remember? She was scared. Of you.”

“I told you when it happened, cook: what I _said_ to her was that she ought to move on and stop bothering you for handouts. And she got the message.”

“She wasn’t bothering me,” the chef retorted sharply. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I like feeding hungry people. It’s one of the things I do best.”

“That how you plan to rescue your business? Catering to the homeless?”

“I’m dealing with my business problems. And if I give leftover food to homeless people, why does that put a bug up your ass? Have you got such a short fucking memory you forgot what it felt like to be in that position?”

“I never begged for handouts.”

“Well, big whoop for you. What _did_ you do? Shoplift? Root through garbage cans? Wanna tell me how much fun that was?”

Zoro felt his hands clench into fists. “Hell no.”

“C’mon: tell me, I’m all ears. Was being a homeless teenager a real walk in the park for you?” Sanji sneered at him. “I bet you got to be a champion dumpster diver. Want to share any top tips for street-living cuisine? The only drawback about rooting about in waste-bins for food was you probably got pretty skanky doing it: but I guess that wasn’t such a big problem. People looked right through you, because when you’re homeless you’re invisible to everyone except the cops. Especially if you’re a dumbfuck fifteen year-old whose own _family_ dumped him.” The chef made a dismissive gesture with his cigarette, his tone scathing. “Who’d want to notice some piece-of-shit loser like that? Total fucking downer. Bet you looked and smelled like crap.”

The words punched at Zoro. “...Fuck you.” His voice felt choked: cold rushing through his body like icy water.

Sanji took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, watching him for a long moment. Before quietly saying, “And that’s what being shamed feels like.”

There was a beat of silence.

Sanji fixed the swordsman with intent blue eyes: the sneer totally gone from his face and voice. “That’s how you made Kelsey feel. As well as frightening her. Maybe you never felt scared, when you were living on the streets... If so, you got lucky.”

History flickered through Zoro’s head. A toilet stall door, splintering open. A strong hand shoving his face hard against a grimy tiled floor, the weight of a body pinning him down.

He met the chef’s gaze. Saying nothing. But Sanji read something in his eyes: hell knows what. The chef nodded slowly. “You treated Kelsey as if she was a worthless human being. That is not okay. Treating _anyone_ like they’re worthless is not okay. You don’t get that, then...” Sanji let out a sigh, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “...Either you’re a fucking hypocrite, or a total moron. Or just a shitty psychopath.”

Zoro answered shortly. “I get it.”

The chef nodded again, eyes still on Zoro’s. “Then please explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to come out with all that offensive bullshit.”

“I was pissed at her.”

“For taking some day-old pastries and a bag of bananas?” One of Sanji’s brows hiked up.

“Didn’t look like that was a one-time thing.” Zoro had been thrown off-centre by everything the chef had fired at him, but the clearest feeling he could latch onto right now was anger. “Your business is up against it, cook – and she knew she could come flutter her eyelashes and charm free food out of you. She was just using you.”

The chef shook his head. “When your own life is kinda crappy, you know what one of the things is that helps? Helping _other people_.” He spread his hands. “I can’t fix everything that’s wrong, but I can make sure one less homeless person goes hungry for a night. And that makes me feel a little better.”

Zoro considered this. Yet still somehow found himself saying, “You don’t look after yourself, no-one else is gonna do it for you.”

“Whoa...” Sanji frowned at him. “You _really_ think that? Seriously?” He shook his head again. “C’mon... I know you’ve had to deal with a ton of shit, but you’ve had people in your life who’ve been there for you. Koshiro and Kuina - and Luffy. When the going gets tough, we all need help from someone. What goes around, comes around: I help people whenever I can, because when I’ve needed help other people have been there for me. Paying it forward, yeah?”

There was a long space of quiet between them. Sanji smoked his cigarette, watching the swordsman. Finally the chef spoke again. “Okay, I’m gonna take that silence as agreement.”

“I hear what you’re saying.” Zoro shifted on the bench, folding his arms across his chest.

“Hhn... I hear a ‘but’ in there.” Sanji grimaced.

“No. Just...” The swordsman grimaced too, struggling to put what he was feeling into words. Struggling even to know what he was feeling. “...You just give and give, shit-cook. You’re always giving stuff away. Not just food: your time, your energy. You’re always making sure everyone else in the world is okay. This summer you pretty much broke yourself doing it. And when I tried telling you to take things easier, or get help from Zeff, you shut me down.”

“Ah.” The chef looked down at the ground. “...Well. I appreciate that you wanted to help. And offering to loan me money: I really appreciated that, too.”

“Yeah?” Zoro remembered the way his offer had been turned down.

Sanji looked up at him, maybe prompted by the tone of the swordsman’s voice. “Yes. I did.”

“You didn’t want my money, though.”

“Because I know you don’t have much of it to spread around.”

Letting out a measured breath, it was Zoro’s turn to stare at the ground. “...Right.”

“Hey. That wasn’t a criticism.” Sanji’s tone was firm. “I don’t judge the people in my life by how much is in their pay packet. You should know that.” He let out a huff. “Hell, I’ve just had to ask my old man to help bail me out. I’m not exactly in a position to be throwing stones.”

Glancing back at the chef, Zoro lifted his eyebrows. “So you did ask Zeff for help?”

Mouth twisting uncomfortably, Sanji nodded. “Yeah.” After a beat, he added, “Nami talked me into it.”

“Uh huh.” The swordsman smiled wryly, unsurprised. “That mean you’re gonna be okay with your business?”

“Paid off that fucking repair bill. Figured out how to cover my other outgoings. So, yeah.” Sanji blew out a breath. “Gonna have to run on a shoestring for a few months, though. Source ingredients cheaper: downsize the menu at _Bite Me_. Zeff told me I was overspending on pretty much everything: gave me some ideas for how to cut my running costs. That crafty old bastard has learned a few tricks of the trade, all the years he’s been running a kitchen.”

Zoro didn’t doubt it. “Well... Good you’re getting things turned around.”

“Mm.” Sanji released a slight sigh. “Yeah. Feels like – this huge weight is slowly lifting off, I can start to get out from under it. I want so bad to make _Bite Me_ work, and I felt like I was fucking everything up. But now I’ve got another chance at making a go of it.” There was a beat, then he looked at the swordsman. “Now I’ve got some breathing space. And we need to talk.”

Giving the other man an appraising look, Zoro nodded slowly.

“I was so fucking angry with you.” Sanji frowned. “You acted so shitty at _Bite Me_. And you were even worse when you just showed up and started pounding on my apartment door.”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Big clue, right there: I didn’t want to talk to you.” The chef shook his head. “You should have backed the fuck off. But instead you came round and said a ton more obnoxious shit. Then you tried to shove your way into my apartment.”

“Which is when you gave me a flying lesson,” Zoro commented.

“Yeah.” Sanji’s mouth twisted a little. “How’re the ribs?”

“Okay. Nami tried to bust ‘em up again, last week.”

“Nami?” The chef looked nonplussed.

“She was pissed at me.” The swordsman shrugged. “I assume ‘cos of what you told her.”

“She’s my best friend. I had to tell her something about what happened.”

Zoro felt the anger that he’d been carrying for a few days come closer to the surface. “That mean you had to tell her about my past, too?”

A flush came onto Sanji’s cheeks. “That was a mistake... We were talking and I told her I felt crappy about throwing the bad shit you’d told me about your past back in your face. It just slipped out. But that’s all I said to her.”

“Sure about that? Because I got the feeling she thinks I’m some kind of ex-gangbanger.” Zoro felt the anger simmering under his skin: kept it leashed down.

“All I said was ‘bad shit’. I didn’t go into specifics.”

“You tell her I was a meth head?”

“No!”

A silence stretched between them, for almost a full minute. At last Sanji spoke again. “Ugh... This is a real fucking mess.”

Zoro had no argument with that. “Yeah.”

Letting out a heavy breath, the chef looked at him. “You really pushed my buttons when you said all that hateful shit about Kelsey.”

The swordsman let out a grunt. “Noticed that. How come?”

Sanji hesitated: took a hard pull on his cigarette, before shaking his head. “Other than the fact you were being a misogynist asshole?” 

“Other than that: yeah.”

The chef actually bit his lip then. Looking more wary than Zoro had ever seen him. His blue eyes searched the swordsman’s gaze, as if trying to read it: then he let out a sigh. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Zoro had zero idea of what was coming next. Trying not to feel the tightening in his guts at the seriousness of the chef’s tone, he kept his face still. “I’m listening.”

“Remember I told you I grew up in France?” 

“Yeah.” Zoro nodded. “Till Zeff adopted you: brought you over here.”

“Well... before that, until I was seven years old, I lived with my mom.” Sanji took a breath. “She was a wonderful mother. She was loving and funny and cared with her whole heart for me. And she was very, very beautiful.”

Zoro nodded, eyes resting steadily on him. “You never talked about her before.”

Sanji exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing. “I don’t. Hardly to anyone. Zeff, and Nami, some... That’s it.”

“How come?”

Sanji gave a half-shake of his head. “It’s not easy to talk about.”

They both sat in silence for a few moments. At last the chef spoke again. “My mom was special to me. But other people saw she was special, too. She had this... ability to make people feel good about themselves. Appreciated. Cherished.” A small smile grew, lightening his face. “She liked to make people happy.”

Zoro regarded the chef. Thinking, _Like mother, like son._ “Was it just you and her?”

“Yes.” Sanji gave a brief nod. “I never knew my dad. And she never talked about who he was. Which didn’t bother me, really. I always knew she loved me, and that was enough.”

“Must have been tough for her, raising you alone.”

Sanji gave another nod. “Yeah. But she managed.”

“Who looked after you, when she went out to work?”

“When I was a baby? Sometimes a neighbour; sometimes a sitter. I don’t really remember too well. Then when I got older, like five or thereabouts, I didn’t need a babysitter any more.”

Zoro frowned. _Since when is a five year-old kid old enough to look after himself?_

Sanji saw his frown and fixed him with a level gaze. “Don’t judge her.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to.” Sanji’s eyes were fierce. “The look on your face tells me what you’re thinking.”

“You’re not a fucking mind-reader. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”

“Well, based on other shitty things you’ve said recently, it’s pretty easy to guess.”

Zoro took a slow, controlled breath in. “Okay. I’ve said some shitty things. But now I’m listening, to you. I’m not judging your mom.”

“Bullshit.” Sanji took a pull on his cigarette, his hand clenched. “You think she was a bad mother, leaving a little kid alone.”

“What I think is, maybe it was tough for _you_ , being left.” Zoro kept his voice neutral. “That’s not the same thing.”

There was a long pause. At last Sanji reached out and dropped the end of his cigarette on the ground, before grinding it under the toe of his shoe. Then he reached for his pack to get another. “She didn’t have much alternative.”

“I figured.”

“She worked nights. But she was always back before morning. She used to put me to bed, I’d go to sleep, and she’d be there when I woke up. I didn’t feel abandoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“She did shift work?”

“Of a sort.” Sanji lit his new cigarette, focussing on the flame. “She was a sex worker.”

There was a moment of quiet. Sanji’s eyes switched up to Zoro, and there was a hardness in them. “And just to give you fair warning: I’ve heard every ugly word people can use, for what my mother did. In French and in English. And anyone who’s ever used one of those words in front of me, has lived to regret it.”

Zoro felt pieces click into place in his brain.

_Shit._

After another long silence, Sanji spoke again. “I didn’t know then what she worked at. I was just a kid. When you’re young you just assume however your family is, is normal. Even when I went to school: okay, most kids had a mom and a dad, but not all of them. I wasn’t the only brat being raised by a single parent. I knew money was tight: we moved apartments a lot, sometimes we lived off pasta and cheese. I learned pretty young not to ask for toys and all that junk kids usually hanker after, because I knew Sora couldn’t afford to buy it for me.”

“That’s your mom’s name? Sora?”

The chef nodded. “Sora Lenoire.”

Zoro thought about this. “You didn’t keep her surname when you got adopted?”

“Yeah, I did. I just anglicized it. ‘Le noir’: ‘black’.” Sanji gave a small shrug. “Zeff asked me what I wanted to do about names, when he adopted me. I wanted to keep my mom’s name... But I changed it to the English version, because I was already getting shit at school for being foreign, I figured having a French surname would make life even crappier.” He grimaced. “Didn’t make a hella difference. I still wound up in a lot of fights. I was one angry little shit.”

The swordsman remembered the chef saying something along these lines before. But there was still a big piece of the puzzle missing. “So what happened? Did the authorities find out your mom was - ” He broke off. Suddenly at a loss for what words he could use that wouldn’t tip them into unsafe territory.

Sanji looked sidelong at him. “You can say ‘sex worker’. It’s what she was.”

Suddenly, Zoro registered that all the verbs the chef was using to talk about his mother were in the past tense. _She was a wonderful mother. She liked to make people happy. She loved me._

“What she did for a living... It was work she could do at night. She could pay the bills but still be around in the daytime, to spend as much time as she could with me.” Sanji said this quietly. “Like I said; I never felt neglected. Right up until I was seven, she was there for me. Reading me bedtime stories. Picnicking and making sandcastles on the beach. Looking after me when I got sick. Walking me to and from school. Listening to me when I talked. She was a loving mother.” He was gazing out into the park, his cigarette wisping up a blue thread of smoke from between his fingers. “I was lucky.”

There was a clatter of noise: a couple of youngsters rolled past on skateboards, laughing loudly, feet smacking against the tarmac path as each tried to overtake the other. The chef watched them go, a half-smile on his face.

Then his smile faded. He lifted his cigarette and inhaled; a frown pulling his brows together and staying there. “Maybe we could have just carried on living like that. Or maybe at some point, the authorities would’ve found out what was going on and gotten involved, tried to put me in care: fuck knows. But what happened was, one day my mom just didn’t come home. She put me to bed one evening; went off to work like usual. But the next morning when I woke up she wasn’t there. I never saw her again.”

Zoro frowned too. “She left you?”

“Fuck, no!” Sanji’s eyes flashed anger at him. “She didn’t fucking abandon me. She would never have done that. I told you: _she loved me_.”

The swordsman made no reply. Feeling like whatever he responded with was going to be the wrong thing.

The chef exhaled hard. “I didn’t know then what had happened. Just that my mom wasn’t there: she’d always been there for me, and then she just wasn’t. I didn’t know what to do... A while before that, she’d made me promise never to open the door of our apartment if she wasn’t home with me: never to go out on my own. So I didn’t. I stayed in our apartment and I waited for her to come home. For days. Then for weeks.”

It seemed like an unbelievable story. Except that the tone of Sanji’s voice, the tense way he held his body, the lost look on his face showed how real it was. Zoro pictured it: seven year-old Sanji, sitting alone in an apartment, listening to every sound in case it turned into his mother’s footstep or her key in the lock. ”How long were you alone?”

The chef looked away, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Almost two months.”

“Two _months?”_ Zoro found this hard to comprehend. “How the fuck did no-one notice a seven year-old kid being left on his own, that amount of time?”

“The first few weeks it was Easter: school holidays.” Sanji gave a small shrug. “Then once school started back, it took a couple of weeks for the authorities to start getting involved. Letters at first; then a social worker came round. I just hid in the bathroom till she stopped knocking on the door.”

The swordsman regarded him soberly. “So then what happened?”

“Eventually, cops came and broke into the apartment. I don’t really remember that: I was pretty out of it by then. I woke up in hospital a few days after.”

“Hospital?”

“Malnutrition.” Sanji inhaled a mouthful of smoke, and gave the other man a fleeting glance. “There wasn’t much food in our apartment, when my mom went missing. I ate my way through it in the first couple weeks. By the time the authorities found me, I was half-starved. I had to spend weeks in hospital. It was fucking horrible... Drips and shit, I was already scared of needles, being kept in there was a nightmare. They even put me in restraints at one point, ‘cos I kept pulling out my IV.” A brief flinch went through his shoulders. “Gahh... Fucking hospitals. I hate them.”

Some more things started to make sense in Zoro’s head. Like why the chef hadn’t wanted to go to the E.R. that time he damaged his back. “Shit... Sorry you had to go through that, cook.”

Sanji acknowledged this with a half-nod. “Once I got well enough to leave hospital, child protection services put me in a group care home. Then I got fostered out, with a family in Marseille. And that’s pretty much everything. You know the rest of it already: me running away from my foster home to the docks, running into Zeff... The whole shebang.”

The swordsman nodded. But something was still untold. “When you were in hospital... Did you ever find out what happened to your mother?”

“They just told me she’d had a bad accident. I guess they thought that’s what a seven year-old kid would understand.” Sanji’s mouth tightened. “I kept remembering something that had happened a few months previous... One night I woke up and my mom was home, in the bathroom. She didn’t want to let me in but I made a fuss, said I was gonna pee my pants, so she had to. And when I went in I saw her face: she was all bruised up. Like someone had been hitting her.” The hand that wasn’t holding his cigarette clenched into a fist. “I freaked out. But she told me she was okay. That she’d been in a car accident. And I was just a kid, so I believed her.”

Zoro watched him. “You think someone beat her up?”

“She was sex worker.” Sanji said this bitterly. “Getting beaten up by clients is an occupational hazard, when you’re in that line of business.”

The swordsman nodded, slowly. “Guess she didn’t want you to worry about her.”

“Yeah. I know that.” Releasing a long unsteady breath, Sanji nodded too. “And back then... That’s all I knew: that my mom had had an accident, and died. That’s why she hadn’t come home.”

“You get to go to her funeral?”

“No. I was in hospital for weeks. I remember asking my foster family where my mom was buried, and they said it was too far to travel: maybe when I was older.” A brief smile quirked the corner of the chef’s mouth. “I asked Zeff too, just before we were due to leave France. He found out and got us both bus tickets and took me there, the same week.”

“Good for Zeff.”

“Yeah. The old fart’s not been a bad parent, most things considered.” Sanji drew on his cigarette. “I mean: big fucking pain in the ass, half the time. But for the important stuff, he’s totally been there for me.”

Zoro leaned forward, resting his folded arms on his knees: looking sidelong at the other man. “So I guess Zeff knew about your mom before he adopted you.”

“Yeah. The authorities filled him in. My foster parents knew, too... But they were kind of crappy about it. One of my foster brothers used to give me a hard time, call me a son of a whore, that kind of shit. We got into a lot of fights, which our foster parents had to deal with: but whenever I tried to talk about my mom, they pretty much shut me down. It was like no-one wanted to mention her name: like there was something shameful about her; about how she’d died.”

“Did Zeff talk about it with you?”

“When I was a kid, not so much. He let me talk about her when I wanted to, which wasn’t often. I was kind of gun-shy about opening up about her, after being in care and getting so much shit from other kids about it. Then just before I turned sixteen he sat me down one day and said if I wanted to know more about how my mom died, he could tell me. And that once I hit eighteen I could request to see all the French police files about what happened. If I wanted to.”

“Police?” Zoro had an uneasy feeling he knew where this was heading.

Sanji looked directly at him then. “This is not a good story.”

The swordsman met his gaze. “A couple months back, you sat and listened to me tell you all that fucked-up shit about my past. I can handle whatever you want to tell me.”

The chef studied his face. As if looking for something there. And gave the barest nod. “What I said to Zeff was, yeah: I wanted to know what happened to my mom. And he told me.” His mouth tightened. “Everything.”

The swordsman felt his own eyes narrow, in sympathy. “Bad?”

“She was murdered.” Sanji said this simply, his voice quiet. “A tourist found her body in a parking lot, just off the Narbonne road; a few days after she went missing. The only ID she had on her was registered to a hotel in Narbonne, where she rented a room when she was... working with clients. That’s why the police didn’t figure out for a while where she actually lived, or that she had a kid.”

Zoro kept listening. Holding space for the chef to say whatever he needed to.

“As soon as I turned eighteen, I contacted the French police, asked for copies of the police reports. And there were some newspaper articles too. Not much. No-one really cares when women like my mother turn up dead.” Sanji spoke with an edge in his tone. “I read the police reports. They said she was killed by multiple hits to the head with a blunt object. They never made any arrests. They never even targeted any suspects. As far as the police were concerned, she was working in a risky business. She was a sex worker who got beaten to death. Just another statistic.”

“Not to you.”

“No. Not to me.” Sanji took an unsteady breath. “In those police files about her, there were photos. I looked at them.”

Zoro couldn’t help grimacing. “Cook...”

“I had to.” Sanji’s voice was steel. “And I will never fucking forget. She loved me. She was my mother. She was a beautiful woman. And some despicable piece of human garbage beat her head in and left her dead in a parking lot. As if she was worth nothing.”

There was a long silence. Smoke wisped up from the cigarette in Sanji’s fingers. The leaves of the sycamore tree above them shushed in the breeze, shadows and sunlight dancing on the ground at their feet.

At last the chef spoke again. “I have zero tolerance for anyone who treats women like crap. If someone talks shit about women, I will get in their face and make them stop. If someone physically threatens a woman, I will physically intervene. And if anyone, _anyone_ hurts a woman and I know about it, I will make it my fucking mission to take that bastard down and make _him_ hurt.” He gave the swordsman a twisted smile. “Nami calls it my knight-in-shining-armour complex.”

Zoro was thinking everything through. Feeling the weight of everything he’d just learned settle inside him. “Guess I got off easy, then.”

Sanji side-eyed him. “I did try to kick you through a wall.”

“Gonna have to try harder than that.” Zoro gave a wry smile.

“Shithead.” The chef frowned. “You were asking for it.”

“Uh huh.”

Sanji gave a grimace. “But I felt bad after. You’d busted up your ribs a month previous... Last thing you needed was me kicking you across the hallway.”

“Had worse.”

The chef looked steadily at him then; before giving a small shake of his head. “You say that like it makes it all right. It doesn’t.”

Zoro lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to accommodate that one. “You were pissed at me. I get it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sanji frowned. “I fucking hit you, Zoro: that’s not okay. Not for me. And it shouldn’t be okay for you, either.”

“C’mon, cook. We’ve both taken each other down before.”

“That was sparring. We both know the difference.” The chef rolled his eyes. “You even hearing what I’m saying?”

“I hear you. Don’t fuckin’ get where you’re going with this, though.”

“Okay, then give me an answer: why didn’t you hit me back?”

This time Zoro fell silent. After a few moments, Sanji asked him again. “I want to know. Why not?”

Zoro gazed at the ground between his feet. Not entirely sure himself about the answer to that one. “Wouldn’t have fixed anything.”

The chef’s eyebrows pulled together slightly. After a beat, he said, “You think?”

The swordsman shrugged. “Wouldn’t have changed how you felt. What you think of me.” He lifted his eyes back to meet the chef’s: that steady blue gaze. “Being a shitty junkie and all.”

Sanji blinked, blood flushing dark into his face again. “...I know that’s what I said to you. But that’s not who I think you are.”

“You sure about that?” Zoro kept his voice even. “I told you the truth a couple months back, about where I’m from... Seemed then like you could deal. But you threw this stuff back in my face when we fought. That tells me you’re not okay with it.”

Sanji let out a smoky breath, biting his lip. Then turned to face the swordsman fully. “I was angry when I said that... And I wanted to shut you the fuck up.”

Zoro held his gaze. “Felt like you meant it.”

The chef ran a hand into his hair. “It was messed-up. I’m sorry.”

“I know a lot of people would figure I’m damaged goods, shit-cook.” Zoro said this with a half-shrug. “But what I don’t know is, if you can get past that... Or maybe you just don’t need any more shit to deal with, right now.”

Sanji closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he gazed at the swordsman from under lowered brows. “Here’s the thing. What you told me, about your life... I’m still getting my head around some of it. I meant what I said a couple months back: I’m glad you got through all that shit, and I understand why you did the things you did. But some of what you told me isn’t easy to know. Like, you telling me you got off on those fucked-up fights. Enjoyed _hurting_ people.” His gaze held the swordsman’s. “Part of me wishes I could un-hear that.”

Zoro had already figured this out. But it didn’t lessen the impact of the chef’s words. “I get it.”

“You saying it’s no big deal that I kicked your ass across that hallway is fucked-up, too. I can kick your ass six ways from Sunday, and if you act like an almighty fuckwit again I will. But I don’t want to be with someone who I have to fucking _fight,_ to get them to listen to me.”

A heavy sinking feeling was growing in Zoro’s chest. He nodded, not finding any words in response.

“But.” Sanji gestured at the swordsman with his cigarette, jabbing the air. “You quit fighting for money. You quit the drugs. You’re a different person to who you were ten years ago. We _all_ are.” Sanji indicated himself. “Growing up the way I did shaped who I am: needing to protect women, hating hospitals, whatever. But what’s important is, I know these things about myself. I try to keep them front and centre, so I can deal. It’s when we don’t think or talk about this kind of shit, we get into trouble.” He gave the swordsman a suddenly conscious look. “Hell, I didn’t talk to you about some of my past, and that’s partly what got us into trouble. Case in point.”

Zoro said nothing for a few moments. A memory suddenly arose, of Zeff standing in his kitchen, knife in hand. Regarding the swordsman with that dark fierce gaze: giving him a piece of advice.

_\- You can’t throw away your past. Try, and it’ll come back and bite you on the ass every time._

Sanji took a hit on his cigarette, watching him with a slight frown. After the silence between them had stretched longer than was comfortable, he spoke again. “So. You told me about your shitty past. I’ve just told you about mine. We’ve both apologised for saying crap we shouldn’t have... How about we call it quits?”

These words hit the swordsman like a kick in the stomach. “....You want out of this.” The words came slowly out of his mouth. Feeling like someone else was saying them.

“...What?” Sanji’s face became a picture of confusion. “Fucksake, moss-brain! That’s not what I’m saying.”

Zoro took a slow breath in. “That’s not what ‘call it quits’ means?”

“What it means, dumbass, is that both of us got shit on by the universe when we were young. But that doesn’t mean it has to screw up the rest of our lives. Or are you so fucking competitive you have to claim your childhood sucked worse than mine did? Get over yourself.”

A tense silence stretched between the two of them. Which Zoro eventually broke by saying, in a level tone, “Right.”

The chef let out a sigh. “Don’t go all monosyllabic on me, craphead. If I want out of this, you’ll be the first to know.” He fixed the swordsman with a look. “What I’m saying, is... From hereon in: how about we both agree we’ll be up front about shit like this?”

_Hereon in?_

Zoro ran those two words through his brain a few times, making sure that this time he actually understood what the chef meant.

The heaviness in his chest suddenly felt like it was falling away. Giving him space to breathe.

Sanji eyed him warily. “Wow. This is a first. Don’t think I ever rendered you speechless before.”

Zoro found his voice quickly then. “Deal.”

Sanji got a small smile on his face. “Meaning, you’re on board with the whole being-up-front thing?”

“Yeah. If that’s what it takes.”

“Heh.” The smile on the chef’s face widened. “Don’t worry, moss-head. I know using your words will be a challenge for you at first. We can take it slow.”

Turning to face the other man, Zoro gave him a slow and dangerous grin in return. “Bring it.”

And suddenly the sun seemed a little brighter in the park.

There was almost a full minute’s silence. Sanji released a huge smoky sigh; then leaned back against the bench, letting his long legs stretch out across the path. “...Huh.” His eyes closed for a moment: the smile still playing over his lips. “Feels weird. Like, good-weird: but still, y’know... Weird.”

The swordsman regarded him. “What does?”

“All of this.” The chef opened his eyes again: turned his head sideways to gaze at his boyfriend. “Talking all this shit through with you. Telling you about my mom.” That steady blue gaze took in the other man. “Just... seeing you again.”

Leaning back on the bench too, the swordsman nodded slowly. “Uh huh.”

“Three weeks...” Sanji tapped his finger on his cigarette, flicking away ash. “Fuck... I really didn’t know if you would show up here today.”

Zoro shrugged. “What’s the worst could’ve happened? You already kicked me outta your life.”

“...Still.” The chef gave him a look.

“You texted me, shit cook.” Zoro returned the look. “Wasn’t gonna pass up an opportunity to finish that conversation we started in your hallway.”

“That wasn’t a conversation, that was a shitstorm.” Sanji grimaced.

“How come you texted me, anyway?”

“You know the answer to that one, dumbass.” The chef smiled. “When Nami told me you said sorry, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hear it from you in person. Not least for the rarity value.”

Zoro gave a wry smile too. “Think Nami kinda wants me dead.”

“Mm... Think she wants to hurt you in numerous long drawn-out ways first. The sweet release of death is not something she’s giving you any time soon.” Sanji let out a smoky laugh. “God, I love that girl.”

“Put in a word for me. Least till my ribs are healed.”

“What’s it worth?” The other man gave him a sidelong look, eyebrows raised.

“Is make-up sex on the table?”

Letting out a snort, Sanji wryly smiled at him. “Maybe.”

“Then I guess we can find out.”

This time Sanji laughed out loud. “Guess we can.”

There was an almost-comfortable half minute or so of quiet between them, before the chef spoke again. “ _Dis donc_... This has been one hell of a summer.”

Zoro let his arm rest along the top of the bench. Testing the distance between them. Feeling a barrier starting to break up, like ice on a thawing river. “Still some of it left.”

“For sure.” The chef nodded. “I’ll still be working a lot of hours, got to turn things around.”

The swordsman also nodded. “I get that _Bite Me’s_ gotta be your priority.”

“Yeah, it is. But I also need to make time for the people in my life. Of which you are not an insignificant one.” Sanji gestured at him with his cigarette. “You act like an asshole sometimes, but I’ve kind of got used to you.”

“Likewise.”

It was back there between them, as if it had never disappeared. Sparks flying, like flickering lightning: pushing each other, to see what would happen. And Zoro was suddenly tempted to test the edges of that. Lean in and close the gap between him and the chef on the park bench. Maybe kiss that wiseass mouth, see what happened.

Maybe Sanji picked up on his intent, for the other man gave him a long look... Before stubbing out his cigarette. “You busy, rest of the day?”

“Nope.”

“Me either.” The chef rolled his shoulders, evidently easing out accumulated tension. “I’m done with work till tomorrow. I was planning to cook Mexican and watch crap on YouTube.” His gaze met the swordsman’s. “Plenty of _chalupas_ , ‘f you want to come hang out.”

Zoro considered this. “... Sounds good.”

One corner of Sanji’s mouth lifted up. “We could walk back past the corner store, pick up a bottle of wine.”

“Or some beers.”

“Whatever.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “How about both. You’re buying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Finally: our two uber-dorks have done what all of you have been screaming for them to do, for about the last three chapters. Hope it's been worth the wait.
> 
> (And just FYI: in my head canon, the two things Zoro feels least confident about are fancy dance moves, and using his words. It's gonna be a lot of fun watching how this thing develops.)
> 
> Final chapter will be posted as soon as I've finished editing it. In which make-up sex might occur. Maybe.  
> I mean, only if you want to read a load of, y'know, smut, basically.  
> I don't have to post it, if no-one's interested in reading it. ;-)


	18. You Could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearing the carefully neutral tone of Zoro’s voice, Sanji looked at his boyfriend. “It’s not like I could do much about it... But I guess I wasn’t a big heap of fun to be around this summer, huh?”
> 
> Zoro met his gaze. One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Shit happens.”
> 
> “Your thorough integration of Zen philosophy into your life is a constant inspiration.” The chef lifted one bare foot and shoved the swordsman’s knee lightly with it. “Dumbass.”
> 
> “Quit fuckin’ kicking me, shit cook. Leastways till I finish this.” Zoro lifted his beer in one hand, and captured Sanji’s foot with the other. The chef felt the other man’s grip close around him, warm and strong.
> 
> “Well, now I know kicking you into orbit gets your attention...” Sanji responded mock-thoughtfully. “...Maybe I could try it more often.”

* * *

_I want you so hard  
I want you so good  
But can you trust me?  
Yes, you know, you could_

_\- Eagles Of Death Metal_

* * *

When they reached the chef’s apartment, Sanji handed Zoro his own phone and gestured towards the speaker dock on a nearby table. “I’m gonna make a start on fixing the food. Put some music on.”

“Like what?” Zoro lifted Sanji’s phone to look at its screen where a music app had been opened, starting to scroll through the chef’s library of tunes.

“Hit the playlist called _Something’s Cooking_.” Sanji spoke over his shoulder, heading onwards towards the kitchen.

As he ran water into the sink and began to rinse the salad leaves and peppers he’d taken out of the fridge, Sanji heard Cat Empire’s _Days Like These_ begin to play, and smiled. Zoro had evidently managed to navigate his way around his phone, at least.

 _It's days like these that make us happy / Like a puppy getting lucky with Lassie  
_ _Hassle-free hours passing by / With the beat (one, two)_  
Said it's days like these, kicking back / Just doing what we do

Washing and prepping vegetables and the other ingredients was a good task for occupying the chef’s hands and mind, keeping him in the here and now. After the conversation that had played out between him and Zoro in the park, Sanji was in need of doing something familiar, something practical and simple.

From the moment he’d texted the swordsman that morning, the chef had been unsure how any of this would go. He’d prepared himself for Zoro’s response being anything from _Fuck you_ , to zero response at all. Or maybe Zoro turning up in the park for the express purpose of payback, for that kick across the hallway.

Yet the swordsman had instead said sorry. Had listened to everything Sanji had to say, without their encounter turning into another fight. And the adrenaline that had revved up in Sanji’s system had had nowhere to go. Here in the refuge of his kitchen, cooking and listening to music, he could feel the come-down.

- _Shitty junkie_

How Zoro had looked repeating those hateful words was a memory that made Sanji cringe. Talking about Sora had also been hard. Part of him felt wrung out now, wiped by that intensity... But a bigger part of himself felt like it was rising high, lifted up like a kite catching the wind. There was shit they still had to figure out: but Zoro was up for that. For facing the gnarly stuff when it came up. For being real with each other.

_\- You’re on board with the whole being up front thing?_

_\- Yeah. If that’s what it takes._

As declarations of commitment went, it wasn’t exactly high romance. But he’d seen the way Zoro’s eyes had changed, the moment the swordsman had understood Sanji wasn’t telling him it was over. A guardedness in them had lightened; then it was gone.

Weeks ago when he’d called Zoro those harsh things, Sanji had seen a wall go up inside the other man. And he’d seen something raw show in Zoro’s eyes first.

_\- I was angry when I said that. And I wanted to shut you the fuck up._

_\- Felt like you meant it._

The power of words to wound was something Sanji had learned young. His seven year-old self pinned down on the floor by his foster brother, hissing _Fils de pute_ into Sanji’s face: the way it felt when someone found that vulnerable place in your psyche and targeted it.

That words could be weapons was something that the chef himself had used to good effect, later in life. But words could also be tools for defusing conflict; for undoing hurt. They could dismantle walls of silence between people. Sometimes they could even heal damage that was so deeply buried only the scars showed.

_\- We can take it slow._

Nothing in life was simple. Being together with someone least of all. And right now Sanji wasn’t certain if he felt reckless enough to think too far ahead, think about what being together with Zoro might become. But one thing was for fucking sure: he wanted this. Gnarly conversations, misunderstandings, knockdown fights, working through shit together: whatever it took. Because he was already in this too deep to walk away without leaving a part of himself behind. That was something he’d realised, the moment he’d seen the look in Zoro’s eyes after he’d spat the words _shitty junkie_ at him.

That moment when you know hurting the other person hurts you too.

There was a footfall behind him: Sanji turned around from his chopping board, to see Zoro standing in the kitchen doorway, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. The swordsman looked at him, staying at the edge of the chef’s domain. “Want a hand with anything?”

Sanji almost said _No, I can manage_. But something made him pause. Maybe the way the swordsman had stopped there: waiting for Sanji to invite him in. “Yeah.” He gave his boyfriend a smile. “That cheese on the table needs grating.”

Zoro gave an answering nod, before coming inside. He set his beer down on the table and picked up the cheese, before glancing around.

Guessing what he was looking for, Sanji took his grater out of a cupboard and set it on the table too, along with a shallow bowl. “Do the whole block. What we don’t use today I’ll take to work.”

They worked in silence together, but it was an easy silence. Music still playing a funky backbeat; the quiet _tok-tok-tok_ of Sanji’s knife against the chopping board as he diced onions, deseeded and chopped chillies, skinned and sectioned tomatoes to make a salsa with a kick. Once the cilantro was finely chopped too and Sanji had sliced a crisp lettuce into silver-green slivers, he only had to reheat the black beans he’d cooked earlier and check their seasoning; and fry the corn tortillas in a skillet until they were golden and crispy.

They piled up their _chalupas_ with fillings in the kitchen, before taking them through to the living room to eat. Eating was hands-on and somewhat messy: they sat at either end of the couch, plates on their laps, enjoying the food.

“Man, these are good.” Zoro licked salsa off his thumb, before picking up the last half of his well-loaded _chalupa_. “You plan on selling these at _Bite Me_?”

“Yep.” Sanji reached across the table to his glass of chilled Pinot Noir, and took a satisfying sip. “All part of my new cunning make-it-cheap, sell-it-in-quantity strategy.”

“Doesn’t taste cheap,” the swordsman commented.

“Well yeah: that’s kind of the point.” Sanji side-eyed him. “I want my customers to come back again.”

“Serve this up and you won’t have a problem.” Picking up his second bottle of beer, Zoro swigged a mouthful.

“Thanks for the testimonial.” The chef smiled. “I’ve been working on a few ideas for changing up my menu: budget dishes that still look and taste great. Zeff kinda rammed the message home that I was spending way too much on ingredients.”

Giving a wry smile, Zoro took another bite of his food. “Guess you’re gonna have to play ball with him for a while, after he helped you out.”

“Crap, am I ever.” Sanji grimaced slightly. “But it’s not like what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. I _was_ spending over budget, and not making enough money. In business terms, that’s longterm suicide. Not to mention a total headfuck.”

“Uh huh,” grunted the swordsman.

Hearing the carefully neutral tone of his boyfriend’s voice, Sanji looked at him. “It’s not like I could do much about it... But I guess I wasn’t a big heap of fun to be around this summer, huh?”

Zoro met his gaze. One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Shit happens.”

“Your thorough integration of Zen philosophy into your life is a constant inspiration.” The chef lifted one bare foot and shoved the swordsman’s knee lightly with it. “Dumbass.”

“Quit fuckin’ kicking me, shit cook. Leastways till I finish this.” Zoro lifted his beer in one hand, and captured Sanji’s foot with the other. The chef felt the other man’s grip close around him, warm and strong.

“Well, now I know kicking you into orbit gets your attention...” Sanji responded mock-thoughtfully. “...Maybe I _could_ try it more often.”

Zoro drained his beer and set the empty bottle down on the table with a _thunk_. Keeping hold of the chef’s foot and closing his other hand around his ankle, he met his boyfriend’s gaze. “Up for it if you are.”

Feeling the slow slide of Zoro’s callused thumb along the arch of his bare foot, Sanji was momentarily transfixed by how good it felt. He gave the other man a dangerous grin. “Book us a space at that crappy-ass gym you work at. About time we had a rematch.”

It appeared this was the right thing to have said. The swordsman’s mouth widened into a slow, predatory smile. “...Yeah.”

It was hella annoying, Sanji thought: that Zoro could smile like that and it made him want to simultaneously kick his ass, and also pin him to the floor and kiss him breathless.

After finishing eating, they settled on the couch for a few hours of random online binge-watching.

“Holy crap... Half the world is vlogging about cooking, seems like.” Sanji scrolled down the seemingly endless list of video suggestions that YouTube’s algorithms apparently thought he’d be thrilled to watch. “ ‘My Drunk Kitchen’... ‘The Naked Lunch’... ‘The Fabulous Baking Boys’...” This latter video showed a thumbnail of two beefcake types posing behind a rack of cupcakes, clad only in cooking aprons. “Who watches this shit?” 

“People who get boners over gym queens and dessert?” Zoro suggested.

“Guess that rules you out, then.” The chef snorted.

“Maybe you’re missing a trick, shit-cook. Get naked and give your sales a boost.”

“Yeah: working around hot stoves and sharp knives with no clothes on is a real turn-on for me.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “Not.”

Zoro pointed at the video counter. “Looks like it works. Those guys have got a ton of hits.”

“Nevertheless: I am not doing cooking porn. My business isn’t in _that_ bad a shape.”

“I’d watch it.”

“ _Quelle surprise_.” Sanji let out a snort. “Forget it. I’m working with Nami on some new promotional ideas, and none of them feature nudity.” He clicked open a new browser tab and typed in his website html, bringing up a webpage. “Take a look.”

The swordsman leaned in closer, reading out the webpage’s heading. “ ‘ _Sanji Black:_ _From Baratie to Bite Me_.’ ”

“Nami said I needed to get a bio up for people to read. She figures one of my USPs is that I’ve been cooking since I was a kid, starting with my old man at the Baratie.”

“USPs?” Zoro’s brows furrowed. “The fuck is that?”

“Unique Selling Point, you ignoramus.” Sanji scrolled the page downwards. “Something that’ll make me stand out against all the other zillion people trying to break even in the catering industry.”

“Go back up the page again.” The swordsman pointed at the screen.

Doing so, Sanji gestured with one hand at the webpage. “This probably isn’t the final layout. But what do you think?”

“...Huh.” Zoro studied the photo inset into the first paragraph of the article. “When was that taken?”

Looking at the image himself, the chef gave a wry smile. “That must’ve been... maybe, six months after Zeff got me working in the kitchens at the Baratie? Something like that.” His gaze rested on the photo. His adoptive father in chef’s whites standing on the quayside in front of the Baratie; and himself aged ten or thereabouts, wearing a downsized version of the same outfit. Both of them gazing into the camera, standing next to each other with arms folded across their chests, bearing almost identical feisty grins. “I gave Nami a bunch of photos to choose from - but she had to go with that one, said it was cute... Gahh. I look like a little twerp.”

The swordsman shook his head. “Nah. Nami’s right. You were a cute kid.”

Sanji gave his boyfriend a sidelong look. “Yeah. So cute I’d been suspended from school twice that year for trying to knock other kids’ teeth out.”

“Bet they were asking for it.” Zoro reached out with one hand and mussed up the chef’s hair roughly, pushing his bangs over his eyes.

“Not unlike you at this precise moment.” Leaning away, Sanji shook his head free and shoved his fingers upwards, brushing his fringe aside. “Craphead.”

“You two look like a matched pair in that photo.” Zoro gestured with his thumb at the webpage.

“Yeah. We do.” The chef looked at the picture again. A younger Zeff, less lined and grizzled, proud in front of his newly-successful restaurant. And beside him Sanji himself, the skinny little squirt he used to be, baring his teeth at the camera in a cheeky grin that was almost grimace. “The local paper was doing a story on the Baratie, and the reporter saw me peeling potatoes in the kitchen: decided they had to get a picture of the two of us. Kept going on about how their readers would love the father-son angle, family-run business, blah blah. Told Zeff how strong a family resemblance there was between the two of us, which we had a big laugh about afterwards.” He let out a snort of laughter. “Dumbass journalist.”

“Your old man didn’t tell them you were adopted?”

“He said it was none of their business. Or anyone else’s.” Sanji gazed at the photo. A moment of his childhood, frozen in time. “He always said, if anyone ever asked: I was his kid. End of.”

There was a moment of quiet. Into which Zoro’s voice broke with an unexpected question. “You got any photos of you with your mother?”

Sanji felt himself grow still. Eyes blinking at the laptop screen.

Evidently picking up on his reaction, the swordsman spoke again. “Dumb question. Shouldn’t have asked.”

“Uh.” Sanji slowly put his laptop on the low table by the couch, then turned to face his boyfriend. “No. That’s... okay.”

Zoro’s eyes held his: the other man’s brows had drawn together in a slight frown. Sanji felt an uncertain smile flicker onto his own face. “Just... No-one’s asked me about that before.”

The swordsman nodded slowly. Still watching him.

The chef stood up. “Back in a sec.” And he left the room, heading for his bedroom. Moving almost on autopilot, feeling lightheaded as he opened the closet in one corner, kneeling down on the floor to reach right into the back. Pushing shoes and other random closet clutter out of the way: his hands finally closing around the edges of a sturdy cardboard box. He pulled it out and picked it up, coming to standing: its familiar heft tugging at the corners of his heart.

When he returned to the living room Zoro was sitting on the edge of the couch, arms resting across his knees: that slight frown still on his face. His gaze followed the chef as Sanji walked back into the room and sat down next to him on the couch; then switched to the box that Sanji carefully set on the low table.

Resting one hand flat on the box’s lid, Sanji took a moment to centre himself in the here and now. Running his eyes over the faded brown cardboard; the corners worn smooth by the years it had travelled with him.

He turned his gaze to the swordsman. “I didn’t have much that came with me from France, when Zeff brought me to live here. Most of the stuff like furniture and clothes from the apartment my _maman_ and I lived in, got cleared out by the authorities. But someone in the local _gendarmerie_ must’ve had enough of a heart that they thought maybe a few of the personal things might have sentimental value, so they stashed them in storage. When Zeff started the process of adopting me, some official contacted him and asked him if he wanted to take it off their hands. So that’s how I got these to keep.”

Zoro nodded slowly. Watching as the chef stroked his fingers slowly across the box: then carefully lifted off the lid.

It was impossible for Sanji to open up this box of keepsakes without feeling a twisting in his chest. Not pain, exactly: not even an ache of sadness. More a sense of something within himself being opened up. A place he usually kept closed and safe: guarded.

Lying on top was a child’s book, its cover bright and cheerful. _Plume Le Pirate: Le Trésor de l’ Îsle aux Perles._ The chef took it out of the box and gave a small smile, before setting it aside. “One of my favourite books when I was a kid. I always wanted to be a pirate when I grew up.”

There were other things in there. A few sea shells. A silk scarf his mother used to wear, turquoise blue shot with sea green. A feather a couple of inches long, flushing from white at the base to dusky pink at the tip. Sanji picked it up, turning it gently between his fingers. “Flamingo feather. We found it one day down by the salt marshes. Sometimes you could see the flamingos there, feeding in the shallow water. It was like these magical birds appeared just for the two of us...”

The bottom of the box held a thick folder of paperwork, which Sanji made no move to touch: the police reports and press clippings, which he knew by heart. Instead he took out an A4-size padded envelope that lay on top of the folder, carefully opening it before tipping its contents to slide into his hand. Three photographs of different sizes.

The chef picked up the biggest one first, in a cardboard frame, and handed it to Zoro. “My school class picture. Don’t you dare fucking laugh.”

A grin did broaden across the swordsman’s face. “Heh... Looks like you got told to smile, and went ‘ _No: fuck you_.’ ” 

“I really wasn’t crazy about having my photo taken, back then.” Sanji grimaced. “When I brought it home I begged my _maman_ not to buy a copy, but she told me not to be silly and stuck it up on the wall.” Looking at his seven year-old self wearing a mutinous half-smile for the camera, standing towards one end of the line of children in his class. On the edge of things: wanting either to be accepted, or not to be there at all.

The next photo was smaller, a snapshot taken years before. A young toddler Sanji, only just out of babyhood; sitting on his mother’s lap with his thumb in his mouth, staring at her raptly. Sora had her arms wrapped around him, sitting on the edge of a bed and holding him cuddled close: but her eyes were gazing out at whoever was taking the photograph. She wasn’t smiling.

“I never even knew she had this one, until Zeff gave me all this stuff. I don’t remember the picture being taken. Don’t even remember where we were.” Sanji let his eyes rest on the photograph, as he always did. Trying to access a memory that just wasn’t there. Wondering who the photographer had been. Why his mother’s expressive face was so blank and still. Even her eyes revealing nothing. “I guess this is the nearest thing she had to a baby pic of me. Must be why she kept it.”

“You’re pretty little there. Not surprising you don’t remember it.”

“Yeah.” Frowning slightly, Sanji set the photo aside. Then picked up the third and final picture. The one that never failed to clench a tight fist around his throat.

Held in a simple flat plastic frame, it was bright with colour, taken in strong summer sunshine. He and his mother at the beach: her crouching with her arm around him, both of them laughing. They were tanned and wearing beach clothes, her in a yellow sundress, him in swim shorts and a blue t-shirt with a dolphin on the front.

“We lived five minutes’ walk from the sea, in a tiny little apartment. In vacation time we went to the beach pretty much every day, if it wasn’t too packed with tourists. It was our favourite place to go. We both loved the sea... It was the last summer we had together.” Sanji let his gaze travel over all the details of the picture, as he had done a thousand times before. Their hair tousled with salt and sea breeze. A cigarette in his mother’s free hand; her eyes narrowed against the evening sun, crinkled at the corners by laughter. His own small hands holding a red plastic bucket. Both of them barefoot, toes buried in the pale beach sand. The out of focus blue blur of the ocean horizon just visible behind them.

“She asked a family on the beach if they would take a picture of us both, with her phone. When the police found her...” The chef faltered; then kept going. “This photo must still have been on her phone. I guess that’s how they realised she had a kid. When the cops handed over this box of stuff, this photo was in here: they must’ve printed off a copy.”

Sanji felt Zoro’s shoulder brush against his own, as the swordsman leaned in closer to look at the photograph. “...Huh.” Zoro seemed to study the image. “You look a lot like your mom.”

Something unfurled in Sanji’s chest then. Blinking at the photograph, he took a breath. “Think so?”

“Yeah.” Zoro gave him a slightly quizzical glance. “No-one ever told you that?”

“Not that I remember.” Sanji slowly sat back against the couch, holding the photo in his lap and gazing at it. “I used to think we were alike when I was a kid... Y’know, same colour hair, we both had blue eyes. But she was beautiful.”

There was a brief silence. Then Sanji felt Zoro’s arm lift and stretch along the back of the couch; hesitate for a moment, then slowly but deliberately settle around his shoulders, resting there lightly. The swordsman didn’t look at him: they were both still gazing at the photo. And the thing that was unfurling in Sanji’s chest bloomed a little more. Like a seedling plant, delicate and tiny, tender leaves vulnerable... But strong enough to break through tarmac.

Gazing at this photograph of himself and his mother was something he’d done hundreds of times. An image that usually brought sweet memories with broken glass edges, sharp and painful and aching with loss. But Zoro’s arm was a warm weight touching his back, connecting him to the here and now. The swordsman’s hand curled around his shoulder, just enough to hold him; open just enough to let him go, if Sanji sat forward.

Instead of leaning forwards, the chef let his head fall back instead. Against the steady firm warmth of that arm; shutting his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath. Then releasing it slowly, before turning his head to face Zoro and giving the other man a small smile. Which after a moment he saw mirrored in the swordsman’s face.

Zoro had put his arm around the chef because he needed to get them closer. Because Sanji’s eyes when he showed that photograph of himself with his mother suddenly looked like the eyes of the kid in the school picture.

\- _I used to think we were alike when I was a kid. But she was beautiful._

An answering thought arose in Zoro’s head.

_Take a look in the mirror, cook._

Reaching out he laid his arm carefully around the chef’s shoulders, like some teenager making a move on a date at a movie. Keeping it light: in case they were still at the testing-the-ground stage. It brought them just a little closer, not close enough but he could feel the warmth and firmness of Sanji’s shoulder under his hand.

And now the swordsman could breathe in the smell of cigarettes and wine and warmth that went straight to his gut; that eased every muscle, short-circuited his brain. Then the chef smiled at him: sea blue eyes lighting up like the eyes of the boy and the mother in the final photograph. The picture where neither child nor woman knew it was their last summer together. Where there was no loss, only love.

Sanji let out a breath like a laugh. Before reaching up himself and bringing his hand to the back of Zoro’s neck, tugging him sideways and pulling him into a kiss, that started in the curve of their smiles and deepened until they both fell in together.

When they drew apart Sanji was still smiling, his hand falling to Zoro’s shoulder. “...Thanks.”

Zoro considered that. His mouth was tingling after the contact with the chef’s lips, so to fix this he tightened his arm around his boyfriend and brought them together for another kiss.

 _Holy shit,_ it felt good. Drinking the other man down like water on a burning dry day. Lips and tongue touching, sliding, pressing each other open. Breathing in Sanji’s scent and feeling the flex of the muscles in his shoulders and the bump of their knees touching as they twisted towards each other on the couch. The chef’s hand lifting again to the back of his neck, tightening in an answering pull like gravity drawing them together. Zoro shutting his eyes to feel it all better, forgetting to breathe because other things were more important, and _Fuck:_ his heart was thudding in his chest like he’d just run a mile. The world rushing back in, himself landing back in his body so hard he felt momentarily disorientated. 

_This. This._

When they broke apart again Zoro opened his eyes and his lips felt bruised. Sanji was gazing at him with eyes darkened blue, pupils blown wide, a few strands of hair falling across them. The chef let go of Zoro to bring his hand up to his own face, fingers threading through his darkgold bangs to push them out of his eyes.

Then one corner of Sanji’s mouth lifted... Before he slid out from under Zoro’s arm and stood up, all in one fluid movement. The swordsman felt cold emptiness where a moment before there had been the warmth of the other man’s body against him.

The chef replaced the photograph he’d been holding in the cardboard box on the table. Then he extended his hand towards Zoro: his smile broadened slightly. “Let’s go, moss-head.”

_Let’s go_ meant the chef leading him to the bedroom. Where they stopped by the bed, Sanji turning and beginning to unbutton his shirt, sea-dark eyes not leaving the swordsman. Zoro dropped his own hands to the bottom of his t-shirt and peeled it swiftly off over his head, unwilling to lose sight of what was unfolding.

Sanji let his shirt hang open, revealing his pale, lean body; watching Zoro watching him. Slid his thumb and finger against the button of his pants and flicked it open, revealing just the top of his boxer briefs.

_Uhh fuck -_

Following where this was going, Zoro stepped in close and wound his arms round the chef, pulling them close and sliding his thigh between the other man’s. Pushing forward against the chef’s sharp hips, grinding together and burying his face in the soft, spicy heat of his lover’s neck. Sanji let out a half-sigh, half-groan; shoved his lower body against him.

_Oh yeah_

Zoro tracked his lips up the chef’s neck, along his jaw, found Sanji’s mouth and latched on.

The chef tasted of chilli heat and wine, ripe like sun-warmed fruit.

Long fingers curled at the back of the swordsman’s neck, thrust up into the short hairs there. Sanji made a sound like he did when he was tasting good food, Zoro registered distractedly. _Shit,_ how had he never noticed before that the chef’s good-food noises were the same as his good-sex noises?

Useful information, but right now, moving swiftly on: there was entirely too much shirt left in the mix for Zoro’s preferences, so he shifted one hand upwards from Sanji’s waist and pushed the thin cotton down his arm, freeing up one smooth shoulder. Breaking the kiss – producing a disgruntled exhalation from the chef – and transferring his mouth to the angle where neck and shoulder met, biting softly and putting on pressure to trace pictures with his tongue on that pale skin.

“Hnhh...” Sanji’s fingers clenched, digging into the bare skin of Zoro’s back. At the same time, his hips rocked forwards into the swordsman’s, grinding them harder together.

Zoro shut his eyes and dragged in a breath through his nose, senses flooded with spice-salt-smoky warmth, smell and taste and feel undoing him, something within breaking open.

Sanji’s hands were trailing down the length of his back; then the chef twisted and slid one arm between them, hand sliding over the muscles of Zoro’s stomach, sending a lightning kick of heat arrowing through there. Long fingers worked at the top of the swordsman’s jeans, flipping the button open and dragging down the zipper, before insinuating inside and palming the growing swell of Zoro’s hard-on through his boxers.

The swordsman pulled in another breath, eyes opening to meet Sanji’s at close range. The chef bit his lower lip, then gave a slow smile. At the same time those long fingers gently _squeezed_.

Zoro felt his brain go bluescreen.

Bringing his mouth back to the chef’s he channelled everything into a hungry open-mouthed kiss, before targeting that plush lower lip and sucking on it. Then pulled back just enough to grunt, “This’s gotta go,” fingers gripping the chef’s shirt and pulling it downwards off his arms. Sanji cooperated long enough to let himself be divested, but the moment the shirt fell to the floor he slid his hand back between them and down the front of Zoro’s jeans again.

“Uhh... Shit-cook - ” Zoro rocked his hips into that pressing, squeezing hand.

“This hard already?” Sanji let out a low chuckle, stroking his fingers up and down. “Hmm... Guess it’s been a while, huh?”

The swordsman wasn’t prepared for the heat of blood rushing into his face, at the same time as it was moving to other areas. “...Mngh.”

“Heh.” Sanji’s smile became a smirk. “Missed you too, moss-head.”

To distract from the flush that had taken over his face, Zoro groped for the fly of the chef’s trousers, tugging it all the way open before sliding his hands along his lover’s hips, fingertips questing under the edge of his boxer briefs. “Yeah, so I see.” He brushed against the tip of Sanji’s cock and felt the chef stutter and draw in a breath. Zoro felt the heat building between them both and kept his fingers moving, pushing briefs and trousers downwards, hands sliding over the tight curves of Sanji’s ass and strong lean thighs. Determined to get them both naked because he just wanted to feel and touch and smell and taste every inch of the man pressed against him.

The chef reciprocated, pulling down Zoro’s jeans and boxers: and then they collided together like drops of mercury, bare thighs sliding between each others’ legs. Seeking friction and finding it: grinding together, mouth latching onto mouth.

Zoro felt the heat of the chef’s erection against his own and rolled his hips, drawing them together in a slow tight slide that got them groaning in unison. Good but not good enough, so he brought his hand down and gripped their cocks, began to work them with long easy strokes.

Sanji let out a sound that was all noise and no actual words.

_Goodyeahmore -_

Zoro’s free arm wound around the chef’s lower back, tightening to hold them. And felt Sanji’s mouth move away, the other man laying kisses along his jaw and down the side of his neck, kisses becoming bruising. A hand lightly traced the whorls of his ear; stroking through his earrings, making the thin metal clink: pulling at them, a small sharp sting. Then the chef’s hands ran up into Zoro’s hair, pulling at it too: tugging the swordsman’s head forwards to meet Sanji’s mouth again in a hungry kiss.

When they broke apart they were both breathing hard. Sanji let his hands slide down from Zoro’s shoulders; traced downwards over his ribs, stomach, hips. And then fluidly kept moving, sinking to his knees before running his hands up the swordsman’s legs, starting low. Fingertips stroking over his ankles; gliding over his calves, to the sensitive skin at the back of knee. Travelling higher, thumbs tracing lightly up his thighs, outwards to the angle of the hips, then back again.

Zoro looked downwards and tried to breathe shallow. Feeling those hands move over him, light as a breath, trailing fire across his skin. His own hands fallen by his side, clenched into loose fists.

Sanji rose slightly on his knees and brought his face close to Zoro’s body, laying a kiss just below his navel, where dark hairs led downwards. Then he tipped his head back a little and cast a look up to meet the swordsman’s gaze.

Zoro felt one of his hands move. Lift slightly unsteadily from his side and reach out to touch that darkgold hair, fingers sliding through its rough silk. Finding the warmth of the skin of his lover’s cheek, the sharp stubbled line of his jaw.

Sanji’s eyes half-lidded as he breathed out slowly, and Zoro felt that warm breath play across his skin. Let out his own breath with a hitch of his stomach muscles and a shiver he couldn’t repress.

It seemed like that was the sweetest music the chef could hear, judging by the way a smile rippled across his face. Then his neck bent and he brought his mouth back against the swordsman’s skin, journeying with lips and tongue and teeth. Navigating places midway between hip and navel; across the planes of his stomach; downwards, softly nipping at his inner thigh until Zoro felt his knees start to give.

Then without warning Sanji took him into his mouth and the swordsman found his hands reaching out again, clutching at the back of the chef’s head because _Holy hell_ he needed to hold onto _something_.

The slick heat of that mouth, the pressure of Sanji’s tongue teasing at the underside of the head of his cock, got Zoro’s mouth dropping open and some kind of sound falling out. And in answer Sanji _hummed_ , a deep buzz of contentment that resonated through Zoro’s cock and connected straight to his hindbrain.

Long fingers encircled him and began to stroke slowly and firmly, matching rhythm with the mouth already working him. The swordsman curled his toes against the floor and felt his hands stiffen as he tried not to give in to the urge to thrust forward.

As if his thoughts had been read, he felt Sanji’s other hand rest on his hip: slide back to grip the muscles of his ass and give it a hard squeeze.

“Oahh - _fuck_ \- ” Zoro bit into his lower lip and concentrated on not losing it.

“...Mmm _MMM_.” Sanji’s hum was even throatier than the last one, vibrating outwards into Zoro’s body. The hand clutching his ass putting on an unsubtle pressure, tugging him forwards.

Zoro felt his hands in the chef’s hair start to shake with the effort of holding back. “ – N _ghh_.”

Sanji’s gaze flicked upwards: he let Zoro’s cock slide from his mouth – though not letting go with his hand – and gave his boyfriend an interrogatory look.

Breathing as slowly and steadily as he could manage through close-set lips, Zoro responded as concisely as he was able. “...This is gonna be over real quick if you keep that up.”

An utterly sinful smile spread across Sanji’s features. “First round, maybe.” His curled fingers moved slowly on the swordsman’s cock: he bent his head to lick the flat of his tongue across the head, making the other man pull in a breath. “Mmmm... I can taste how close you are.” Those blue eyes switched up again. “C’mon, moss-head.” That hand pulling against Zoro’s ass, invitingly. “Gonna make you come undone.”

Those last words were in a low purr that ignited a lightning trail of heat from the pit of Zoro’s stomach to the place where the chef put his mouth again.

_Fuckshithellyeah -_

Hands curling into his lover’s hair, Zoro pulled in a breath. Then flexed his hips, rocking slowly forwards into that slick heat.

_Mmhh_

He felt it down to the tips of his toes. And once again Sanji hummed, like bees happily tasting sweet honey.

The hand on Zoro’s ass slid forwards and down to his thigh, stroking slowly down the length of the muscles there. The cook’s other hand still working his cock, cheeks hollowing as the swordsman pulled back, pressure that felt so good his head tipped backwards, eyes shutting as every part of his consciousness focussed on the sensations in his body. “Hahhh...”

The hand on his cock dropped away: the other curled around his thigh tightened slightly, gripping flesh. Then the chef gently tugged, pulling the swordsman into a rhythm. And Zoro let himself be a partner in this dance, flexing his hips, feeling the slow silken slide of himself into that hot and willing mouth. His breath starting to deepen with the rhythm, fingers cradling the warm softness of Sanji’s hair.

_Feels so fuckin good You feel so fuckin good You feel_

Zoro’s eyes opened and he managed to tilt his head forwards and look down. And what he saw sent a breath shuddering out of him. His cock moving into Sanji’s mouth: the chef’s cheeks flushed with colour, as rosy as his lips. And beneath that, Sanji’s hand encircling his own erect cock. Pumping it slowly in a lax-fingered fist, as he was being facefucked.

“... _Nghh_.”

Heat crawled down the length of Zoro’s spine, joining with the blooming warmth in the centre of his body. Tingling starting to buzz in his fingertips, in his toes. Everything blurring out like tunnel vision, he was only there at the clear hot centre where his body and the chef’s met. Too much too fast but he wanted it, his brain well and truly offline now but that didn’t matter.

He also seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, but that didn’t matter either.

And when he came hard, even that small clear centre vanished.

Awareness came back a piece at a time, Zoro’s mind last of all. The air of the room felt wonderfully cool on his sweat-slick skin, lingering shakes travelling through his body in time with the uneven hitch of his chest. 

Fingers stroked lightly across his thigh. Zoro blinked his eyes open and Sanji’s blue gaze met his: eyes dark, all pupil. The chef’s hand lifted, fingers deftly wiping across his mouth. And just the tip of his tongue ran around his lips.

Zoro pulled in precisely one breath. Before bending down and taking hold of his boyfriend’s upper arms. Moving quickly, lifting up and guiding Sanji backwards so that the chef sprawled across the bed with a sharp exhale of breath. And the swordsman kept moving, kissing hard against that pale throat, tonguing his way down each rib, hands spreading and lifting those long lean thighs so he could take Sanji’s still-erect unfinished cock into his mouth and go down on him.

The chef let out a whining mess of syllables and arched his back, hands clawing at the bed. He was close: Zoro took his cock in deep, swirling his tongue against the sensitive head; teased the slit until precum tang told him his lover was close; then dove in deep again as Sanji came hard and shuddered out a cry, knees quivering either side of Zoro’s head.

After a few moments those strong thighs stopped shaking. A breath in that sounded like it was well overdue was followed by a happy sigh. Zoro lifted himself up; placed a single decisive kiss on the flat stomach before him, just above the navel; then slid all the way up to flop onto the bed too. Coming to rest on his side, folding one arm under his head.

Beside him Sanji let out another almost-sigh. Before opening his eyes and turning his head to find Zoro, a conspiratorial smile coming to his lips. “...Mmhh.”

In answer the swordsman gave a slow smile too, a warm flood of wellbeing emanating from both the pit of his stomach and his chest, hijacking his entire body.

Sanji stretched on the bed before rolling over onto his side too, facing the swordsman. His eyes searched Zoro’s face at close range; lips parted as if he was about to say something – then he closed them again, giving a quick, more self-conscious smile.

Zoro raised one eyebrow slightly. “Uh?”

“Nothing.” The chef responded too quickly.

Tracing one finger lightly up the other man’s ribs, Zoro gave him a look. “Sure about that?”

“Ehh...” Sanji brushed the finger away. “Forget it.”

“Hnh.” The swordsman propped himself on one elbow, narrowing his eyes. “Being up front about shit. Ring any bells?”

“Crapping hell.” Sanji rolled his eyes. “What is this, Truth or Dare?”

“Whatever. I dare you to say what you were gonna say.”

The chef grimaced, then pushed himself up to sitting. “Where’d my pants wind up? Want a cigarette.”

Zoro sat up too, catching hold of his boyfriend’s wrist and halting his imminent escape. “Your ass isn’t leaving this bed till you ‘fess up.”

“Fucksake, moss-head...” Sanji’s gaze held the swordsman’s. “Gonna get my smokes first.”

The swordsman looked into those eyes, and remembered. His own hand shoving open a door. A kick exploding under his ribs.

He opened his hand, releasing Sanji’s wrist.

The chef promptly rose and headed for his crumpled clothes on the bedroom floor: hunted through his pockets until he retrieved cigarettes and lighter; lit one up, then flopped back on the bed with a smoky satisfied sigh. “...Hah.”

Still with his head propped up on one arm, Zoro waited. After a few drags on his cigarette, Sanji met his gaze. “What I was gonna say... S’kind of sappy. Know you hate that.”

The swordsman shrugged one shoulder. “Never said I hated it. Just, no good at that shit.”

Sanji took another hit on his smoke, a small frown pulling his brows together. “Maybe you’re better at it than you think you are.” And his eyes held the swordsman’s.

Zoro said nothing, mainly because he had to consider this. Not entirely sure what it meant. The chef seemed to pick up on his response because his head tilted slightly. “Just, for someone who works so hard at being the best you can... Seems like sometimes, you don’t see how good you _are_.”

Feeling his brows kink together in a frown that was half surprise, half negation, Zoro let out a noncommittal grunt.

“...And this is why I didn’t want to say it out loud.” Sanji rolled his eyes again. “Knew you’d be a dick about it.”

Zoro let a shit-eating grin come on his own face. Seizing the opportunity to try to divert this into familiar taking-the-piss territory. “You missed my dick? That what you’re trying to say?”

“And your overwhelming modesty, obviously.” Sanji snorted. “Ego inflation much?”

“Just being up front, shit-cook.”

“Yeah: subtlety really _not_ your strong point.”

“I notice you’re not denying you missed my dick.”

Sanji met his gaze with an answering smirk. “Heh... Textbook psychological projection.” 

They held each other’s mocking smiles for a beat of silence.

Then the chef leaned sideways and carefully tapped the grey tip of his cigarette into an ashtray on the nightstand, before twisting back to fix his boyfriend with a feisty look. “What I was going to say. Was.” Colour suddenly flushed into his face. “Crap... If you laugh at what I’m gonna say, moss-head, I will fucking kick you off this bed.”

Zoro considered himself warned: schooled his expression into similarly unsmiling attention.

“...Missed this.” The words came out of Sanji in a rush. “You. Us.”

An unfamiliar feeling uncoiled in the pit of Zoro’s stomach. A feeling that made him want to look away, because he suddenly felt naked in more than just the sense that all his clothes were strewn around Sanji’s bedroom floor.

The chef gnawed on his bottom lip, then took a quick pull on his cigarette. Scowling. “...Erghh. Feel free to respond, shithead.”

That unlocked Zoro’s tongue. “...Uh.” One of Sanji’s eyebrows hiked up, and the swordsman made himself _use his fucking words_ , because he could _do_ this.

Definitely.

“Me too.” _Oh yeah: smooth, Roronoa. A fucking parrot could do better._

It appeared however that he’d said the right thing. Some of the tension went out of the chef’s face: his shoulders visibly relaxed. His eyes lightened up: did that happy thing again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Zoro gave this affirmation readily. Because it was the truth. And then of course further words totally fucking eluded him. Sanji lay there smiling and gilded with that post-sex glow, cigarette held at that jaunty fucking angle only the chef could pull off, blue eyes lit up and lean pale body sprawled gracefully on the bed. The rosy flush his own words had brought onto his face still colouring his cheeks. And of course the chef had said it, because he never backed the fuck down from a challenge.

He was the one who’d dared to say it.

For Sanji those moments after his declaration (which he heard himself saying like an out-of-body experience) had brought his heart into his throat. Along with an internal screaming voice that went something like, _Oh my fucking god, what are you even like? Way to wreck the mood, you freakazoid. You should be making some snarky crack about make-up sex being the shit, not blushing like a teenager and blurting out a ton of awkward._

Nailing himself precariously to reality with the feel and taste of the cigarette in his mouth, he had watched Zoro’s eyes grow a little wider.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK._

Then, miracle of crapping miracles: the swordsman had said, _Me too._ And confirmed it when Sanji had double-checked, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

_\- Yeah?_

_-Yeah._

It was enough to bring the chef’s heart rate down out of seizure territory. And to paste what felt like a silly grin (okay, a _sappy_ grin, goddamnit) across his face.

_Oh yeah._

Lying on his bed with his boyfriend, the aftershocks of that blowjob still resonating in his bones. The swordsman’s dark brown eyes steady on his.

The cigarette suddenly felt like a spare part in his hand. Sanji twisted to stub it out, releasing the smoke in his lungs from one corner of his mouth, away to the side. And as he rolled back to face the other man he felt Zoro’s hand land on his hip: slide slowly to his waist and tighten there.

In reply Sanji reached out too. Lightly brushed his fingertips across the swordman’s ear, stirring the three hanging slivers of gold. Traced the angle of his jaw. Trailed down the sensitive skin of his neck. Let his hand curl around the sculpted shape of his shoulder: feeling the strength there. The smooth slide of that tan skin under his fingers. Everything familiar, extraordinary; a bittersweet mix of what they’d almost lost, precariously re-found.

In the spaces where their two bodies touched, and didn’t touch, Sanji felt it. Something growing again.

The bed dipped a little, as Zoro half-leaned in, half pulled the chef towards him. Finding Sanji’s mouth with his own: taking his time over the kiss, closing his eyes. Sanji kept his own eyes open, because he didn’t want to lose any of this. The shadows cast by the bedroom lamp across the planes of Zoro’s face. The swordsman’s eyelashes making dark crescents beneath the strong lines of his brows.

When their lips parted the swordsman released a breath before his eyes opened: for a couple of heartbeats they held each other’s gaze at close range.

Then Zoro’s mouth kicked up a little at one corner. “So, cook... You good to go again?”

Sanji let out a snort, shoving the other man in the ribs. “Way to ruin the mood, dumbass.”

Tugging on the chef’s hip so that their lower halves pressed together, the swordsman chuckled lowly. “You need more recovery time, just say so.”

Pressing their foreheads together and baring his teeth in a ferocious smile, Sanji wound one of his legs around his boyfriend, pulling them even closer together. “Does that _feel_ like I need more recovery time?”

Zoro gave him a matching shark grin.

This time it was a slow burn. Taking their time because they could. Finding their way back into this shared territory, remapping the contours of their bodies with fingertips. Testing, tasting with tongue and lips: breathing in the familiar scent of each other’s skin.

Sanji felt the hunger in the way Zoro touched him. The hunger in himself.

_\- I like feeding hungry people. It’s one of the things I do best._

The swordsman’s hand stroked across his chest: brushed and then circled his nipple, stirring it into harder flesh. Sanji let it happen, then reached down and took hold of Zoro’s hand. Brought it to his mouth to kiss it. Parted his lips and took his lover’s forefinger into his mouth, slipping his tongue around it, sucking it in. Felt the other man catch a breath.

Savouring what he was doing, Sanji swirled his tongue around again, before sliding off with a wet _pop_. Making his hand travel down Zoro’s wrist and arm; navigate across to lightly sketch along the shadowed muscles of the other man’s stomach. Trail deliberately slowly downwards, to brush his knuckles against the heat of the swordsman’s erection.

Smiling, he leaned in and brought his mouth close against his lover’s ear. Spoke in a warm breath that he felt send a shiver through the body lying next to his. “Want to feel your cock inside me.”

Zoro’s head turned, bringing their mouths together forcefully, bodies rolling closer. A bruising kiss: and then the swordsman nipped at Sanji’s lip, before responding as he usually did. With actions rather than words, tracking down the chef’s body with eager mouth and questing hands.

A strange mix, of slow time and urgency, took them over. Sanji felt Zoro’s lube-slick finger open him up, and he wanted it faster, harder, at the same time as he wanted each moment to slow down and last as long as he could bear it. Kisses made small touches of heat on his knees, his thighs.

“...Nnnhh.” Sanji found his legs flexing, hips lifting reflexively off the bed. Summoning what he wanted. And was rewarded by the wonderful feel of Zoro’s lips closing around his cock. Wet silk heat and sliding tongue and just enough pressure and pull to make him breathe out hard again, hands coming down to hold his lover’s head.

_Oh hell yeah please more MORE_

As if Zoro was hearing his thoughts, the swordsman slid in a second finger. Pushed them both in deep, seeking and curling against the good place, making Sanji’s head roll back against the pillow.

“Oh _fuck_ \- ” The chef felt himself start to make some kind of totally embarrassing noises: one of his hands left its grip in his boyfriend’s hair and flew upwards, pressing its back against his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut, breathing through his nose: feeling heat turning him molten at the core.

After a moment or an eternity, the heat of Zoro’s mouth left his cock. Then Sanji felt the swordsman’s hand close around his lifted arm: tug it downwards. The chef opened his eyes, to see his boyfriend looking at him with a half-smile. “...C’mon, cook.” Zoro’s voice was low: something between a purr and a growl. “Wanna hear you.”

Feeling the blood light up his face, Sanji grimaced at him. “Fuck off.”

“...Hah.” The half-smile became more feral: then within those strong fingers curled again, deftly massaging the same place. Sanji shuddered and his breath caught in his throat.

When he could speak he fixed his boyfriend with a look, extricating his own wrist from the other man’s grip. “...Perv.”

“Yeah. So?” Zoro bent his head and ran his tongue swiftly along the crease between Sanji’s thigh and abdomen, setting the nerves there tingling alight.

Setting his teeth together Sanji rocked his head back into the pillow, focussing on all the sensations the other man was pulling from his body. On the warm breath, wet mouth moving its way across his skin. On the flex and curl of the fingers inside, easing him open; teasingly pulling out; sliding back in deeper. Almost losing himself in it: feeling that slow sweet tension beginning to build in his body. Like warm syrup flowing through his veins; blue flames licking upwards from a glass of sambuca.

“...Nnuhh....” His mouth and throat had gone slack, relaxed beyond the point of forming words. He swallowed: tried again. “...Enough.”

The mouth working against him paused; fingers stilled. Sanji lifted his head enough to look downwards, rubbing his hand softly through his boyfriend’s short green hair. “S’good.”

Zoro’s dark eyes assessed him. “Sure?”

Sanji tugged at his hair. “Get the fuck up here.”

Zoro didn’t need a second invite, crawling up the bed and wrapping himself around Sanji with a contented _huff_. They kissed for a few seconds, before the swordsman leaned away to grab a condom, ripping the packet open with his teeth.

Sanji laughed. “Caveman.” And waited only just long enough for Zoro to roll the condom on, before pushing him over onto his back. Straddling him and sliding one hand to the back of his head, bringing them together for a lengthy kiss.

The swordsman sat up and wrapped his arms around the chef’s body, hands sliding up and down the length of Sanji’s back until they settled on his hips. When their kiss finally ran out of air, the chef let himself sit back a little and ran both hands over Zoro’s chest. Cupped his pecs and gave them a good appreciative squeeze: pinched both nipples hard, enjoying the heavy outbreath this pulled from his lover. “Heh... I really like how much you like that.”

“Uh huh.” Zoro’s hands wandered lower, caressing the hard curves of Sanji’s ass. “I like this too.”

The chef tweaked the hardened nipples again, then ran his thumbs in circles over them. “You’ve got good tits for playing with.”

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Mm-hm.” Sanji smiled. “Ever thought about getting piercings?”

His boyfriend let out a dismissive snort. “Got enough scar tissue there already.”

“Getting them pierced would hurt. You’d enjoy that.” Sanji let one finger trace down the path of Zoro’s scar, traversing the muscles of his chest, belly, abdomen.

“You like the idea so much, get ‘em done yourself.”

Giving a huff of laughter, Sanji reached sideways for the lube. “Fair.” He uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount of the gloop into his hand, holding it for a moment to warm it. “Lean back.” 

Zoro propped himself on his arms: drew a breath in when the chef’s hand enclosed his erect cock, caressing it. Took another breath when Sanji raised up on his knees, guiding them together; then sank down slowly.

“Uhh _fuck_...” Zoro felt his hands tighten where they gripped his boyfriend’s hips.

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” the chef agreed, sounding slightly breathless himself. Bending his head forwards and capturing the swordsman’s mouth in a hungry kiss, one hand sliding to the back of his neck to pull him more upright. Zoro returned the kiss with interest, winding his arms around his boyfriend’s lower back to bring them even closer together. Bracing his feet against the mattress to get leverage and giving a slow, testing thrust upwards. 

“ _Uhh_ nn...” Sanji’s hands gripped his shoulders, before the chef flexed his own hips. Strong legs taking his weight just long enough to rise a little: then bringing himself down, answering Zoro’s thrust. Hands travelling round to the swordsman’s back; fingers stroking, then nails scraping across the skin, trailing shocks of pleasure. Tracking his mouth to his boyfriend’s ear, biting at his earrings: then breathing hot into his ear. “...Gonna fuck your brains out now.”

Promise, intent, threat. Zoro didn’t care which. Slid his grip lower, to the chef’s hips, and sent a hard thrust upwards that made the other man catch his breath. “Like to see you try.”

Letting out a huff of laughter, Sanji shifted his hands a little, to fasten onto the swordsman’s shoulders. “Really hoped you’d say that.”

Like a race where neither of them wanted to reach the finish. The pace picking up; sweat slicking their skin. Fingers tightening to grip, feeling bruises in the making, wanting them. Tattoos, marking their claim.

Sanji’s fingers threading through Zoro’s hair; then tugging sharply at it, pressing them even closer together. The swordsman felt the quick spike of pain zag warm down his spine: reciprocated by burying his face in the chef’s neck, latching on hard with tongue and teeth. Feeling the shudder go through the other man’s body, then Sanji go with it, rocking up and then down.

_Yeahmore_

_Youmore_

Getting close to the peak, Zoro could taste it, feel everything liquefying and running in to the centre. Clenching his hands on Sanji’s hips and fucking upwards, grinding in to reach that place and the chef letting out a hissing breath and tightening his hands on Zoro’s shoulders until he knew there would be dark fingerprint bruises there tomorrow.

_Who the fuck cares_

Both of them moving faster, sloppier, less control and more urgency, seeing who could push the other over the edge first. Sanji’s cock rose and fell between their bellies, flushed rosy dark, head wet with precum. Zoro leant back, propping himself on one arm, taking hold of Sanji with his other hand: pumped his fist loosely on the chef’s cock in time with their rocking hips, bringing throaty _Unh Unh_ sounds from his lover. Thrusting upwards into tight slick heat, Sanji’s legs spread wide as the chef matched his rhythm.

Losing himself. Losing where he ended and Sanji began. And wanting this, all of it, all of him.

And then Sanji’s hand slid to the back of Zoro’s neck, neck arcing back and mouth falling open, eyes closing as he fucked his hips hard against the swordsman’s own. “ _Nnahhhh_ \- ”

That was all it took to flick the switch in Zoro. A release of heat ripping through him as they both shuddered and moved hard against each other, a dim sensation of warm cum spilling against their bellies from Sanji’s cock. Spinning out into the rush, unmoored and falling, anchored only by their hands on each others’ bodies. Everything burning out to white noise and white light.

A body falling forwards against Zoro’s own. Lips finding his forehead; his eyes; his mouth. Arms sliding around his shoulders, holding him. Their breaths slowing together; catching as each aftershock ran through, sweet and sudden.

Zoro lifted his own arms and wrapped them around Sanji’s back. Tight: so he could feel the force of his lover’s breath. The heartbeat thudding against his chest, an echo of his own. Feeling more right, in this moment, than he could remember.

They kissed again, then Sanji lifted his head away slightly. The upward curve of a smile that was satisfied and happy and smug and dirty, all in one. And Zoro knew he’d do anything to keep that smile in his life.

It was too much to deal with, so he dealt with it the usual way: shifting his hips and rocking upwards, enjoying both how it felt and how the chef’s expression changed.

“...Nnnn.” Sanji’s fingers clenched on his back, the caught breath deep in his throat adding to those nice aftershocks that were still rippling through them both. “...Shit, moss-head.” And then he softened the words by bending down and sharing another open-mouthed kiss.

It felt good to stay like that. Draped round each other, sated and heavy, bones melting into the bed. Even when Sanji eventually sat upright and looked down at the somewhat messy situation between them, wrinkling his nose and pronouncing, “Ugh. Clean-up,” like a head chef issuing orders to his underlings.

Being the one currently underneath, Zoro raised an eyebrow and looked around for something handy to wipe with. Their clothes were distant, on the floor where they’d stripped them: which was probably not a bad thing because Sanji had evidently guessed his intention and smacked his fist lightly against one shoulder. “ _No_ , you fucking animal! Shower.” 

Right now Zoro was comfy and the shower was an inconvenient distance away, so he gave the chef a lazy grin. “Round three?”

Sanji answered with a snarky smile. “I almost forgot your aversion to soap and water.”

Letting one hand slip down to cup the pleasantly hard curve of his boyfriend’s ass, Zoro closed finger and thumb to pinch the muscle there. “Depends what you wanna do with them.”

“Yerk - ” Sanji twitched, then reached down and gave one of Zoro’s nipples a hard pinch in retaliation. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish, craphead.”

“Finished okay just now. Or didn’t you notice?”

“Oh, I noticed.” The chef snorted, before lightly slapping his ribs. “C’mon, lazybones. Get your skanky ass the hell into the bathroom.”

Afterwards they got back in bed, comfortably nested against each other with the covers pulled low in the still-warm late summer evening. Sanji with his head parked on the swordsman’s shoulder, one hand resting on his stomach. Sleepiness beginning to soften the edges of everything, feeling relaxed almost boneless by sex and showering and letting go of all the tension he’d been carrying for too many weeks. Shifting his head slightly against the solid warmth of Zoro’s shoulder, he released a deep, pleasant sigh.

“Hn?” The querying grunt from his boyfriend sounded like he too was edging the beginnings of sleep.

“Just getting comfortable.” Sanji smiled up at the ceiling.

“Mmh.” 

“You working tomorrow?”

“Hrm.”

Prodding one finger lightly against the swordsman’s stomach, Sanji lifted his head slightly, peering at his boyfriend. “Sorry, I don’t speak moss-head. Can you find some actual words, or have I gotta guess what time to set the alarm for?”

Letting out a grumble, Zoro opened his eyes. “...Fuck it. Need to head out by six. Got a personal trainer client at seven.”

“There: that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sanji sat up and retrieved his phone from the nightstand, setting an alarm for the next morning. “I’ll be up early too. Beginning-of-the-week prep at _Bite Me_.” He replaced the phone on the nightstand, before lying back down again. “I’ll fix us some breakfast before we head out.”

“Cool.” Zoro rolled his head sideways and planted a single firm kiss on the chef’s temple.

“Was that to say, ‘Shut the fuck up and let’s go to sleep?’ ”

“Unless you got a better idea.” Zoro drawled this with a shit-eating grin.

“Heh.” Sanji settled his head more comfortably against his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Nah. I’m good.”

_Yeah. You are._

The thought arose unbidden into Zoro’s mind. And with it another wave of that unfamiliar and unsettling and deep sweet shock of feelgood, blossoming in his gut and chest and spreading outwards until he felt it head to toe. 

_Don’t fuck this up._

That automatic nagging voice, the one he couldn’t switch off. But right now it could go to hell. He was sleepily blissed out lying here, with the weight of his lover’s head on his shoulder. He and Sanji were back together. And maybe the shit that had blown up like a volcano between them the past few weeks had forged something stronger.

_\- I’ve kind of got used to you._

Zoro wasn’t taking anything for granted. He’d learned the hard way, more than once: that whatever else life did, it reliably took away from you things you’d come to depend on. But this was something he was going to try to hold onto.

_\- It’s when we don’t think or talk about this kind of shit, we get into trouble._

Weeks ago, by telling the chef about his past, he’d let Sanji in. And now the chef had done the same. They’d both moved into a place that felt simultaneously riskier, and more safe.

_In deep._

Trusting the ground they were both now standing on. Life that wasn’t simple or easy, but true.

There was a quiet chuckle beside him. When Zoro crooked his head and glanced at his boyfriend, Sanji gave him a wicked and sleepy smile. “Quit overthinking things, moss-head. I can hear the gears turning.”

The swordsman gave a grunt. “Get off it, shitty cook.”

“...Heh.” Sanji turned his gaze towards the ceiling. Still smiling that wide smile.

Which, after a while, Zoro found himself wearing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally made it to the end. Sorry it's taken a while, since my roomie caught COVID 3 weeks ago life has been kind of stressful to say the least. But she's recovering, I seem to have dodged catching the virus, 2020 is almost over, let's hope better things are on the horizon.
> 
> Once again, massive gratitude to all you readers. Getting kudos and positive feedback is what made me finally finish this fic and get it all posted. As I've said before: I am nothing without you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> I have a few more AWC plot bunnies hoppin' around in my head, so I might continue with this fic series, if people want it. Can't quite believe how much I've written so far, but hey: words fill my head, gotta get them out somehow.
> 
> However you're planning to spend this 'festive season', be safe, be warm, be happy. See you in 2021.  
> xxx Wordweaver <3 <3 <3


End file.
